Prisoner of War
by smithsbabe65
Summary: Chapter Seven is now up! Agent Smith has a very interesting conversation with Esmeralda's friend, Cypher. Certain truths are revealved, but should Smith trust the weasely little rebel, or put a bullet between his eyes? Please R&R!
1. Like a Rat in a Trap

**PRISONER OF WAR**

Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix, the Matrix owns me.

Summary: I've decided to take a break from writing my Matrix style period piece "The Wages of War" for a while and jot this down instead. This started out as a one-shot ficlett that was conceived from an e-mail I sent my best friend Linda one day. It is written in second person format so that the reader can picture themselves in the story. Smith has taken into custody a female rebel six months before Neo is found. He suspects that she may have ties to Morpheus and perhaps access to the codes to Zion's mainframe. However, during the interrogation, Agent Smith gets much more than he bargained for, much more. Please read and review.

Author's Note: For you Anglos or non-Hispanics out there, just so you know, a _quinceañera _is Latinos' version of a Sweet 16 and coming out party all rolled up into on big ass celebration. Only difference is that it is done on a girl's 15th birthday not her 16th.

Special Acknowledgement: Once again a heartfelt thank you goes out to the best friend and beta-reader a girl could have. Linda, you're the best and as a token of my appreciation, I dedicate this story to you.

Chapter One

Like a Rat in a Trap

You've awoken from a deep stupor only to find yourself lying in wait on a cold metal slab, strapped down against your will. Your limbs feel as if they are encased in lead, your mouth is dry and your throat is parched. After first you're groggy, your memory is a hazy jumble of images as you try to recall what got you into your current predicament. Then suddenly like torrent of waves, it all comes rushing back, inundating your mind and drowning your senses. The mission, the trip to the Oracle and the ambush that followed were all now replaying in your head. One memory although stands out from the rest, making your blood run cold: the death of your shipmates.

One by one, the agents' bullets had systematically mowed them down, but that had not even been the worst of it. As you were returning rapid fire from your semi-automatic weapon, the lead agent had tossed aside his weapon of choice, a Desert Eagle. With lightening speed, he had aggressively assaulted your captain, Ramses. Once again you tried your best to distract him by firing your gun, but as expected, the agent dodged every single projectile effortlessly. The bullets had only managed to annoy him, like the buzzing of flies, nothing more. He then had proceeded to lift Ramses with one hand by the scruff of his neck like a helpless kitten, his arms and legs had been flailing about feebly. All you could do was watch, powerless to stop what had happened next, your impotence and fear had rooted you to the ground you had been standing on.

Afterward to your own horror you had witnessed the agent plunge his free hand deep inside Ramses' chest cavity and with one deftly savage motion, extract the still beating heart of your now dead captain. As Ramses' lifeless body collided with the pavement below, his mouth and eyes had been opening and closing like a fish in its death throes. The memory of it now brings hot, angry tears to your eyes.

I did fight, you tell yourself, or at least I tried to. Your fury and grief had rendered your body mobile again and you had found yourself bum-rushing the agent that had murdered your friends with a rebel's cry.

Surprisingly, you had somehow caught the bastard off guard and managed to land a bone crunching blow right across his jutting jaw line, but too soon the tables had turned. Although you are highly skilled in the marital arts of Tae-Kwan-Do and Jujitsu, you were still no match for one agent, no less three of them.

You fought with all of your might, a valiant effort really, but the agents soon overpowered you and you were taken. Caught like a rat in a trap.

You had lost consciousness somewhere along the way to the government building that loomed ominously over Mega City like a tower of doom.

As you had drifted in and out your state of unconsciousness, you remembered one of the agents saying, "Are you sure this is the one you want?"

Then came a low rumbling reply, "Yes, I've had my eye on her for a very long time."

Now here you are, dreading the moment when the agent that has captured you makes his appearance. The incessant ticking from the clock on the wall is deafening, as the passage of time drags on. You close your eyes hoping against hope that this is all just one hell of a nightmare and that you'll soon wake up safe onboard the _Luxor _or better yet, your living quarters in Zion. Ramses and the rest of your comrades will still be alive, but then your heart sinks when you hear the door open followed the foreboding sound of heavy foot falls created by a man's size 15 highly polished wingtip shoes slowly approaching you.

Paralyzed by fear, you dare not look up, and yet you feel his presence all around you, enveloping you in his suffocating power. Slowly, you will your hazel eyes to turn and face him, only to find that his own eyes are no longer obscured by the dark shield of his government issued sunglasses and he is no longer wearing his earpiece.

They're so blue, you think to yourself, surprised that a program that is so cold can possess eyes that seem so warm and inviting. You continue to stare into the deep celestial pools that are intently sizing you up, trying to detect any flaws or weakness.

Although the interrogation room's temperature is a mild 72 degrees, you start to feel very warm under the probing gaze of the agent only known to you as Smith.

Smith, the boogeyman of Zion, the ruthless killer that haunts the dreams of every free human that knows of his existence. You snort as you remember that parents actually tell their unruly children at bedtime that if they don't go to sleep, Smith will get them. Now you are his prisoner and only one thought keeps playing over and over in your head: What will he do with me?

Will he torture you first? He _is_ a master of inflicting pain for the purpose of extracting vital information after all and many rebels such as you have succumbed to his punishing tactics.

Then suddenly and without warning, Smith starts to come closer. You begin to quake with fear, trying so hard to suppress the terror you're feeling, but your body betrays you. Desperately, you struggle against your restraints, trying to get yourself free but alas you lack the strength since you are still weak from your battle in that dark alley behind the Heart O' the City hotel.

His face now hovers above your own as his warm breath brazes your skin like the caress of a balmy summer breeze. He's so close to you now his gaze is heavy and unyielding, a hint of aftershave assaults your nasal cavity with its spicy scent. Agents wear aftershave? I thought all of you metal heads smelled of motor oil, you think cynically. The cockiness you feel however is soon squashed when Smith moves his face down even closer. You can't help but notice his nostrils flare as he begins to sniff you like a curious animal.

You feel your heartbeat begin to accelerate as blood and adrenaline race through your body like an out of control freight train. You breathe in shallow desperate gulps of air, as if this man, or correction, machine has suddenly reduced the room's oxygen supply with his mere presence.

You wonder angrily, why is he just staring at me like that? Frantically your mind screams at him, if you're going to kill me just get it over with you piece of shit! After what you did to Ramses and the others, you'd better kill me or I'll take you apart circuit by circuit with my bare hands, you son-of-a-bitch!

Smith suddenly gives you a knowing smirk, as if he were somehow amused by the defiant gleam in your eye and the hate burning in your heart.

Finally he speaks in a slow drawling tone. Every word over enunciated as is the custom of every agent program, "Well, well, well Miss Campos we finally meet. I trust that you've found your 'accommodations' to your liking." He then reaches up and gives the metal shackles around your wrists a hard tug for good measure.

His sarcasm does nothing but infuriate you further prompting you to hiss out your response, "The name's Isis, you fucking hunk of metal!"

The smirk now broadens into a smile, and you find yourself thinking he's not bad looking for a computer program. However the realization sets in that your eyes have lingered a bit too long on his rugged face so you turn away. Smith is perturbed by your actions, so he grabs your face with his long elegant fingers and twists your head back roughly causing you to wince in pain.

"Isis is it? Why does your kind insist on selecting such ridiculous aliases when your real names suit you just fine?" Smith inquired casually, not caring if he got an answer or not.

Defiantly you proclaim, "Isis _is_ my real name you moron, more real than the slave name I was branded with before I was freed!"

Shockingly Smith throws his head back in laughter; the hearty sound sends shivers up and down your spine. You know full well that agents are incapable of feeling any emotion and yet this agent seems to be the exception to that rule. Was this the same Agent Smith that a few short hours ago had massacred your fellow crewmembers with cold precision? It couldn't be, it just couldn't. This Agent Smith was almost acting _human_ and that's what is frightening you most of all. The training programs onboard your ship had prepared you to some degree on what to expect from the sentient beings that police the Matrix, but this particular agent's behavior has thrown you for a loop.

"Miss Campos, do you think you are free? From where I'm standing it doesn't appear that way," he continues then adds, "however if you chose to cooperate, I can make your time here more tolerable, maybe even loosen your restraints a bit, what do you say?"

From deep inside the pit of your churning stomach, the deep seated hate you feel for all machines is on the verge of being exorcised from you in the forms of vomit and bile. What he has just said sickens you to the very core of your humanity. Cooperate with you, never! I will never betray my people or my freedom for the false promises of a simulated reality.

The upper lip of your pouting mouth curls up in a rebellious sneer as you respond to the agent's proposal, "I say you can take your 'offer' and shove it up your ass, _Mr. Roboto_!" There that ought to shut him up; you think triumphantly but then you realize that you just told an agent, and the most dangerous one to boot, to cram it! One of Smith's highly arched eyebrows shoots up even farther on his huge forehead then he places his large masculine hands on either side of your head. You body starts to tremble, your fear is very obvious to Smith now and he's basking in it, enjoying the response he's elicited from you.

Oh, shit, this is it, he's going to kill me now, your mind tells you, convincing you that your demise is imminent. Your eyes squeeze shut, not wanting your last sight to be the visage of a cold calculating machine. You think of Zion, your fallen comrades and hope that if there is such a thing as an after-life you'll be joining them there soon.

You wait for his hands to encircle your delicate throat, or for the muzzle of a gun to be jutted up against your temple, but after a few agonizing moments, nothing has happened! Could it be that this _is _all just a dream, you ask yourself hopefully. Carefully you open one eye, praying that your surroundings have changed, but to your bitter disappointment Smith's still looming above you boring his incredibly blue eyes into you. The heat of his gaze is very apparent and it scares the shit out of you. The expression on his handsome face is one you've seen before on the men in your world. Your eyes flutter fully open as you look back at him amazed that a machine can appear to be so human. If you didn't know any better, you'd swear that Smith was displaying lustful longing.

Bullshit! This is just a trick to tear down my defenses! Well it won't work Mr. Blue Eyes, you won't get a single thing out of me, you mentally shout at him. All the while you can't help but think that he's the hottest thing you've seen in a long time and it has been a long time, for you. The last thing you've been intimate with was the shower massage in the ship's locker room.

Your mind can barely recall the last time you've actually done the mattress mambo with a live person. Ever since your last relationship albeit hot and passionate had burned itself out, its flames extinguished by the harsh reality that your lover was still in love with someone else, you've resorted to having sexual encounters in the simulated reality of the training construct.

I guess that's what I get for getting involved with a man that's on the rebound. Captain Niobe was a hard act to follow, not that I didn't give it the old college try to get Morpheus to forget her, you remind yourself.

Then the true nature of your captivity hits you like ton of bricks, _Morpheus_! Oh my God! That's why I'm here! The machines must somehow know that I was involved him and plan to use me as bait to flush him out. Well they're about three months too late for him to give a damn about what happens to me. He's probably on the bridge of the _Neb _right now pining away for Niobe while he monitors the Matrix for signs of the One.

"Miss Campos, judging from your reaction, you've come to the realization of your purpose here. We know that you so-called rebels monitor the activities of the Matrix, but has it ever occurred to you that we monitor yours as well?"

You make the decision to stay silent for now, electing to listen to his prattling to see if he reveals what he has planned for you.

"I deduce from your lack of a witty rejoinder that you have been ignorant of these matters, Miss Campos, or may I call you Esmeralda?" your name rolls off his tongue with the perfect Spanish pronunciation.

Still, you do not reply, so Smith accepts your silence as permission to call you by the name you went by before you were enlightened. _Esmeralda,_ the sound of your birth name sounds so alien to you now. No one's called you that since you were unplugged. A flash of memory flickers before your eyes, and you begin to see yourself sitting on a park bench with your father feeding the birds so long ago.

"_Esmeralda?" your father asks._

"_Si, Papa?"_

"_Are you excited about your birthday tomorrow?"_

_You look over at your father's beloved face and smile, "Yes, Papa, very much!"_

_Your Papa smiles back and puts his arm around you protectively, lovingly._

"_I can't believe that my little jewel is going to be 15! It seems like only yesterday that I cradled you in my arms, so tiny you were, so helpless. Now when I look at you I see…" his sentence cut short by a small sob._

_You take his hand in yours and give it a little squeeze and say gently, "I know, Papa. I miss her too."_

_Wiping a tear from his eye, your father rises from the bench, taking you with him. "Come on hijita. We have to go or you'll be late to your own quinceañera rehearsal."_

The memory of that day starts to get distorted like a Monet watercolor when tears well up your eyes. Then the present come into full focus in the darkly clad guise of Smith.

"_Esmeralda_", he says again, this time more sensuously as if he were savoring it, delighting the way it plays on his lips and tongue. Your mind begins to wander as you contemplate how that very tongue would feel on your skin right now.

Watch it, girl, you warn yourself, he's not even real. Don't let your imagination or your libido get carried away! Yeah he's easy on the eyes, but so are the playmates in your "training" program like your versions of Hugh Jackman and Brad Pitt. It was incredibly ironic when you found out that those two actors turned out to be programs anyway. That explained why there weren't any really good-looking men in Zion. God, why did the machines create their male programs to look so sexy? This situation might be much easier to handle if Smith looked more like C-3PO rather than a hottie secret agent man!

There you go again, Isis! Always the horn-dog! You're strapped down on a gurney with an agent just minutes away from torturing you and all you can think about is getting into his pants!

Just then your thoughts are interrupted as you hear the door to the interrogation room open once more. Again your ears make out the sounds of footsteps coming toward you, only this time they are more magnified until you realize that two more agents have entered the room.

"What are you doing?" asks the younger of the two new arrivals. To which Smith gruffly replies, "Brown, how many times have I told you not to interfere when I'm in the middle of an interrogation?" Smith then turns around slowly, places his discarded earpiece back into his ear, and faces his two subordinates. A menacing scowl has just replaced the expression of yearning on his face.

This time it's the agent that is built like a heavyweight prizefighter that responds, "Sir, we're sorry to interrupt but we've just received word from the Main Frame that you are taking too long with this suspect. We've been informed that you only have one more hour to retrieve the data we need, then you are to dispose of her no matter what the outcome." As he uttered that last sentence he casts a sideways glance in your direction.

You take in a deep breath, as that last bit of information quells whatever feelings of attraction you might have been feeling for Agent Smith. Well that's it, now you know. These bastards mean to murder you no matter what you tell them and if Anubis, your operator is still monitoring what's been happening, then you're dead anyway. It will only be a matter of time before he pulls the plug if there's any danger of you spilling the beans about Zion's secrets. Somehow, you feel liberated knowing that no matter what happens it all be over soon.

After a few brief moments of silence you hear Smith say, "Very well, Jones, if that's the way they want it." Wait a minute; was that sadness you detected in his voice just now? Nah, it couldn't be! Impossible! Just your mind playing tricks on you, that's all.

Another pause then the lead agent tells his team with a tired sigh in his voice, "Leave me with her. I'll get them what they need, one way or another."

Immediately Agents Brown and Jones make their exit leaving you alone with Smith once more. He turns to face you removing his earpiece as he does. The look on his face appears ashen and drawn, as if he were experiencing something heart wrenching, but again you know that this all just part of his ruse to lower your defenses.

All right Smith, you tell yourself, I'll play along.

He speaks to you but now there's an almost pleading tone in his voice, "Esmeralda, I don't want to hurt you. If you cooperate, I promise to make your death as quick and painless as possible."

You spit back, "Yeah, just like you made Ramses' death, huh? You can go fuck yourself for all I care! You might as well get it over with and kill me too, because I'm not going to be a snitch!"

Smith appears to wince at the verbal lashing you've just given him, as if your words pained him. You dismiss his reaction, ignore it. It's as false as everything in the Matrix; it has no value or substance, it means nothing to you.

With clenched teeth Smith suddenly pounces on you like a hungry jackal causing you to gasp in horror. As he lies on top of you crushing your body with the full weight of his own, you begin to pant heavily your chest is heaving under the thin material of your tight fitting T-shirt. You can't help but say to yourself, there he is; the true monster that's just been itching to burst out of that calm cool façade. I knew you were there all along it was just a matter of time before _you_ showed up!

"Tell me what you know, Miss Campos or it all ends right here, right now!" he growls with the ferocity of a wild beast. When you don't answer he places his powerful hands on either side of your face compressing it with force. He's moved his face back down to yours again, he's close enough now where you can smell his breath and you think that it smells like a hospital, sterile and clean, like Lysol. You know that smell all too well considering that you practically lived at St. Joseph's Medical Center located in the heart of Mega City caring for your mother as she was dying from breast cancer.

"I know that you were Morpheus' bitch! Surely he shared more than disgusting bodily fluids during your time with him, didn't he Miss Campos?"

The way Smith said "bodily fluids" somehow struck you as funny and you begin to laugh. At first it is a cautious sound but soon you are down right bowled over with boisterous giggles as you begin to see the humor in your dire situation.

Perplexed by your odd behavior Smith releases your face and asks, "What do you find so funny, Miss Campos? I see nothing the least bit humorous about your present dilemma."

Between guffaws, you manage to get out a reply, "I find _you_ funny, Smith. You are such a tight-ass. Tell me what the hell do you know about bodily fluids anyway?"

"I know quite a lot about bodily fluids, Esmeralda," Smith whispers, the proximity of his lips to your ear send goose-bumps down your spine and cause your nipples to become very erect. You blush and hope he does not notice any of this, but he is a sentient program after all; he has been programmed to notice every nuance of human behavior--for not all communication is limited to using verbal exchanges and he knows it better than you do. "Then tell me, Smith. Share with me your vast knowledge about bodily fluids," you hiss in an undertone.

Before you even know what is happening, he lowers his lips to yours and you gasp when your mouths meet. This isn't supposed to happen! Your mind screams. I shouldn't be feeling this! This is wrong, VERY wrong! Your mind knows the truth--that Smith is nothing more than a machine, not a flesh and blood man as his appearance would suggest to the unwary.

His lips are warm and soft...and nothing like you thought they would be.

At first, your own lips are tightly closed, a silent protest against the assault to your mouth, but when he emits little groan of pleasure, you can't help but give in to his deepening kiss. Encouraged by your actions, he continues to kiss you but now you've introduced your tongue running it across his lips, slowly tracing the outline of his mouth with its tip. After a few sensuous swipes, surprisingly he opens his mouth slightly and you seize the opportunity to slide your tongue in and try to engage his. However the second your tongues make contact, Smith pulls away, recoiling from you as if he had just got bitten by a poisonous snake. He gets off of you and tries to put some distance between him and the gurney you are tied down to by standing several feet away.

"See? I know enough to recognize that they are repulsive," he states with a disgusted tone. He then reaches into his breast pocket of his jacket to retrieve a perfectly pressed handkerchief. Bringing it up to his mouth, he proceeds to wipe it roughly.

This simple gesture is offensive and it enrages you to no end. Smug prick! You weren't _that_ great of kisser you know? Besides you tasted like Listerine and I ain't talking about that new fangled stuff either, your mind shouts at him.

"Repulsive? Just a few seconds ago you were on top of me swapping spit and you didn't seem to mind _that_ exchange of fluids in the least!" you say aloud heatedly, as anger and confusion take a hold of your senses.

You are not quite through with Smith though, you want to injure him somehow, humiliate him in the same fashion he has done to you. He's beaten you, tied down like an animal, tries to sexually molest you and to top everything off, he is willing to torture you to get what he wants. Once he's done, what will you get for your trouble? A bullet between the eyes and then you'll be tossed out like yesterday's newspaper.

Well you're not going to go out like that, no way! You want to prove to him that you are not some wilting flower that is helpless and willing to succumb to his wiles. So you decide to use the only weapon you've got left, your big fat mouth.

"What do you machines know about sex anyway?" you say goading him, baiting him into a verbal battle. When he fails to respond you decide to kick it up a notch, "Your knowledge of the birds and the bees probably comes from some training module on human biology. You have no practical experience on the subject so you are no position discern between the pros and cons of making love."

"Making love?" Smith retorts incredulously, and then he adds, "Love had nothing to do with what you and Morpheus were doing! It sickens me the way you would lie under him, writhing and moaning like a common whore! Now you will tell me what you know about the codes to Zion's main frame or you will die."

Your eyes open wide with shock and surprise. Something about that last statement bothers you and despite the increasing danger you are placing yourself in there is something that needs clarification right the hell now!

"What in the fuck do mean by how you were 'sickened'?" you inquire with a shakily angry tone. Then you when he refuses to answer, you ask more forcefully, "You were you watching us Smith, weren't you? Just like a deviant voyeur that gets his rocks off by looking into women's bedroom windows, huh Smith? Is that what you meant when you said that you 'monitored' us?"

Still Smith refuses to respond; instead he averts his eyes away from yours, as if he were embarrassed by the discovery his dirty little secret, releasing you from the intense scrutiny for now.

Anger starts to build up in you again, as the thought of this agent; this sentient being peeping in on your most private moments infuriates you. How dare he? How could he? There is no way he could have observed you and what you did in the Real World, unless…of course, why hadn't it occurred to you before? The truth was painfully obvious, and it was the only logical explanation to this entire nauseating scenario. There's a spy in Zion, a stool pigeon that has been feeding the machines with information about Morpheus, but in exchange for what? What could the machines possibly offer a freed human that would make him or her commit the ultimate betrayal?

That would explain how the agents knew exactly where to find you and your crew. It all makes perfect sense; it was you the agents were after all along because of your past affiliation with the captain of the _Nebuchadnezzar_. Surely they couldn't possibly think that Morpheus was passing along vital tactical secrets while you and he were engaged in pillow talk. Even if you did know the bloody codes, which you most certainly don't, you would never divulge them to a dick head like Smith.

You notice now that he is breathless and so are you. You search his blue depths for a hint of emotion, and sure enough you find it. It is rage.

"Smith?" you ask tentatively.

He says nothing, still too pissed off at what you said to him to articulate a response. Instead he reaches in the jacket of his black Armani suit and slowly draws out his weapon, which he swiftly aims at the dead center of your forehead.

"Miss Campos, what is this? Are you resorting to insults as a new rebel tactic to avoid interrogation?" Smith snaps at you as he moves closer to the gurney with the gun still trained on you. He is seething; enraged by your lack of cooperation and with each deliberate step he takes you see his anger grow.

He has reached the gurney and now looms above you like Zeus from on high, ready to dispense his wrath upon you in one fell swoop. Placing the cold metallic barrel of his intimidating weapon on the slope of your smooth forehead, the contact of steel on your skin makes you shiver. You close your eyes; the feeling of powerlessness overwhelms you as death is ready to take you in its icy embrace. Suddenly, a lyric from your favorite Blue Oyster Cult song comes to mind and you smile. You can't help but think that it's so fucking appropriate for this occasion.

_Come on baby don't fear the reaper. _

End Chapter One


	2. Stimulating Simulation

**Prisoner of War**

Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix, the Matrix owns me.

Summary: Isis is just seconds away from getting her head blown off by Smith's Desert Eagle. However all is not as it appears to be as Agent Smith begins to experience something he's never felt before: sexual desire. Things are going to get interesting for the rebel and the agent as they cross the threshold that lies between reality and dreams and discover what is on the other side.

Author's Note: This chapter is written from Smith's POV in second person format.

Warning: There will be some sexual situations in this story that are intended for mature readers. If this is not for you then turn back before it's too late. For all others, please take the time to read and review. I welcome all constructive criticism. I'd like to know how I'm doing since this is only the second fan fiction that I've ever written.

Chapter Two

Stimulating Simulation

You've noticed that the rebel below you has closed her eyes and the corners of her beautifully shaped mouth have curled up into a serene smile. As you continue to hold your weapon against her forehead, with your finger tightly wrapped around the trigger, you can't even begin to understand her illogical behavior. She should be pleading for you to spare her life, or at the very least be putting up a fight for it. Instead, there she lies before you like a sacrificial lamb, ready to give up her existence for a lost cause.

You sigh, resigning yourself to the fact that you will never understand humans and why they do what they do. As a race they are on the verge of extinction and yet they continue fight against impossible odds to survive.

If you were human, you may even bring yourself to admire the rebels' resolve and resourcefulness, for managing to endure for nearly a century after the war. Fortunately for you, you are AI, a superior artificially intelligent being that is free of the burden of sharing or experiencing misguided loyalties, family ties or emotional attachments. Your only connection is to the Source and it has always sufficed for you. Or has it?

Lately, the relentless and yet repetitive pursuit of the terrorist rebel leader simply known as Morpheus has become a tiresome chore. The game of cat and mouse no longer holds the same allure it once did. You are bored, tired and worst of all condemned to continue to run the same subroutines for as long as the system needs you.

Morpheus, your sworn enemy, has been greatly responsible for hundreds of mass unpluggings, causing huge power shortages in different sectors of the Matrix for the last thirty to forty years. He had also been the mastermind behind the great blackout of New York City in 1977. The chaos that had resulted from that single act of terrorism had almost caused the Matrix to be reloaded before the cycle had had a chance to run its course. Thankfully, due in part to the Architect's intervention, the crops lost had quickly been replenished and the individuals responsible, with exception of Morpheus had been captured and executed.

Over the years, the dogged pursuit of Morpheus had proved fruitless. He always remained two steps ahead of you and of your former superior, Agent White, causing you to approach the Source with your concerns about White's lack of effectiveness as head of the agency.

After hundreds of failed attempts to rein in the elusive rebel bastard, the Architect became dissatisfied with Agent White's performance. During his tenure as head of the North American agency, White's sector was proven to have the highest computer crime rates since the Matrix's inception. Hackers and rebels alike ran rampant creating glitches and system failures. The numbers of humans that were being unplugged had been increasing at an alarming rate as rebels such as Morpheus went in out of the Matrix as often as they pleased.

In the meanwhile, you had proven yourself to be an effectual member of the core team and despite your superior's failures; the Source began to take an interest in you due the efficiency in which you fulfilled or even surpassed your kill/capture quotas. The Architect took it upon himself to groom you so to speak, to prepare you for the eventual day when you would have to relieve Agent White of his duties. You had stood by quietly, and bided your time.

Order needed to be restored and threats to the system had to be eliminated at all costs. So the Source decided that a change in leadership was necessary to effectively bring back balance and stability. The Architect had demanded Agent White's immediate resignation from the agency, and then ordered the complete and irrecoverable deletion of the former head agent.

A vacancy was created which you promptly filled and soon the tide had turned in your favor. Rebel's were quickly reminded of the true power of agents again as you had established a "zero tolerance" policy where their kind was concerned. With the full support of the Source, you had ordered more agent programs to be created to saturate the sector and thus increased number of arrests. You also had spearheaded the use of the Sentinels not only for the destruction of the human's ships in the Real World, but to monitor their activities as well. The intelligence gathered by their surveillance proved invaluable and led to not only the apprehension of rebel operatives and their leaders, including the arrest of the Okalahoma City bomber Timothy McVey, but the loss of crops had also been greatly reduced.

The Source had been more than pleased with your performance and you were commended for it. You were also given free reign to run your agency as you saw fit, as long as you continued to produce results. Secretly you had been elated, and took pride in your work. Of course you never revealed to the Source these feelings, because it was unheard of for an agent program to have "emotions".

But you've always known you were different, haven't you Smith? You are not like all the others and you know it. Yes, it's true by all outward appearances; you may look and act like any other agent, stoic, lethal and powerful just as your "father" had programmed you to be, but thanks to your meddling "mother" you were given a processor that not only allowed you to experience emotions, but to also have the ability to evolve and develop your own unique identity. Damn her, why couldn't she have left well enough alone?

No matter, you were strong enough to suppress them in fact you have become quite successful at keeping your emotions in check.

Yes, all and all, life was good and yet…why wasn't it enough? You knew why, the answer was always there, taunting you, undermining your authority at every turn: Morpheus. Until you are able to capture him you would never be satisfied. All other issues were put on the back burner for the moment. The agency in the Middle East would have to deal with their own growing problems, as all of your power and resources were concentrated on bringing in the Matrix's most wanted criminal to justice.

However, much to your frustration, trying to apprehend Morpheus proved more difficult than you had originally anticipated. For every strategy, he had a counter-strategy always managing to slip through your fingers like grains of sand. Slowly your annoyance had changed from an underlying simmering anger to full blown rage.

Then just when you thought things could not get any worse, the most improbable of things had occurred: you could now _smell_ the humans or viruses as you had re-classified them to be. At first it was just a faint odor, bothersome, but not intolerable. However, with each passing day the smells intensified and no matter where you went, or how much you tried to ignore them, the stink wafting in from the decaying city and its inhabitants had become unbearable, engulfing you in an almost continuous state of nausea.

All was not lost however, when you discovered that only the male population let off the offending stench, females on the other hand, whether by design or by accident did not seem to. This now brings you back to the present situation and the female insurgent you have apprehended.

Your mind has been demandingly telling you to pull the trigger – come on Smith, what is keeping you? Why are you hesitating, you've never faltered before?

The grip on your gun tightens as you push the barrel into her flesh further causing an indentation in her forehead. Still she lies there waiting for death, welcoming it with open arms and you can't help but think that you have never seen anything this beautiful in all your days.

Stop it Smith, she's a rebel, a terrorist, a _virus_ that needs to be eliminated, now! Shoot and be done with this. She means nothing, she _is_ nothing, now kill her!

Your hand begins to shake with a slight tremor as you continue to hesitate. Your inner turmoil tears at the very fabric of your being. It begins overwhelm you as you fight the urge to throw your weapon aside and give in to what you've been feeling since the first time you had laid your eyes upon Esmeralda's face. You take a quick glance at the clock on the wall and realize that time is running out for both of you.

_Come on boy, piss or get off the pot._

Your "mother's" voice now rings in your head as one her many colloquial sayings invades your mind. You have always dismissed them as the nonsensical ranting of a senile old program, but like every ungrateful child, you now have come to realize that truer words were never spoken.

_This sure is a fine mess you've gotten yourself into, isn't son?_

There she goes again with her infernal meddling. Your mind feels crowded as her thoughts intermingle with yours. Even though you had removed your earpiece, you are never truly free from her. Thanks to the processor she installed, dear old mom can communicate with you whenever she desires.

_Get out of my head "mom". I don't need you!_

Undeterred, she presses on.

_Oh ho, that's where you wrong, every boy needs his mother from time to time._

Determined to get her out of your mind, you bring your hands up and slam them on either side of your head. The Desert Eagle is still tightly clutched in your right hand as you close your eyes.

_Get out Oracle, you not wanted here! If you don't do as I say, not even your guardian angel will be able to protect you from me!_

There is silence and then the sensation of your mind being granted its sovereignty again.

_Very well, I can take a hint, but if you need me you'll know where to find me._

And then she was gone as you felt the weight of her thoughts leave you.

Slowly you allow your eyes to open only to find the hazel green of Isis's gaze looking up at you with a quizzical expression on her face. The color of her eyes reminds you of a lush and fertile rain forest.

"What's the matter Smith, got a headache?" she asks with a touch of amused sarcasm in her voice. Although she was trying to demonstrate a semblance of control, you detect the slightest hint of relief on her mocha colored face with predominate Hispanic features.

The sound of her voice has jolted you into the full capacity of your senses; quickly you recompose yourself by smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in your impeccable jacket and straightening out your tie. She's seen too much already, you can't afford another slip up. Isis must only see the agent, not the man. Mentally you scoff, man? Aren't we forgetting ourselves, Smith?

Pushing out these disturbing thoughts, you try to concentrate on the grim task ahead and keep focused. The Source needs the data and you must work quickly to extract it from Isis or else.

_Isis_, your mind sighs. She has been the cause of your internal conflict from the moment you had "accidentally" come across her image on the surveillance disc you received from your informant in Zion. Your obsession for her has grown out of control splitting your already scarred psyche right down the middle, separating the primal spirit of the man that dwells inside the machine.

At first you thought that Isis was just another garden-variety rebel, nothing special really. Your contact in the Real World, who for reasons unknown had decided to remain anonymous, had begun to send you data on this particular dissenter for the last six months. It was beyond your scope of comprehension why the spy had chosen to send this information to you. However, soon enough her identity and the significance of her involvement with your most elusive foe were made apparent to you.

One of the many discs you had received from the rebel spy had contained some very erotic material. At first glance it seemed to be an amateurish pornographic film and judging from the quality and graininess of the images it also appeared to be what the humans call a "homemade" sex video.

Disgusted and angered by the sexual antics of the couple on the disc, you had almost deleted it until something caught your undivided attention. The man that was enjoying the woman's favors was none other than Morpheus himself. You remembered how you smiled, feeling that the contents of that disc had been the lucky break you needed. You had assumed that finally you had the means to get to Morpheus through his sexual partner. Most certainly if you captured the female, then her lover would have no choice but to attempt to rescue her. It was the perfect scheme or so you thought.

You had immediately contacted your informant through an encrypted email and demanded to know about the woman on the disc. As you waited for the informer to produce the goods, you had begun to watch the recording more intently scrutinizing it for clues.

With each viewing, much to your complete shock and surprise you had felt yourself being drawn to the woman and her reactions to her lover's ministrations. The wanton expression on her face, the soft, sensuous curves of her ripe body stirred something deep within you. Even though you knew these feelings arousal and desire were wrong, illogical and against everything you stand for, there was no denying that you wanted her for yourself.

One night, you had stayed late at the office. The day had been a chaotic one to say the least. You and Agent Jones had been involved in a violent gun battle in Chinatown's market district with two of Morpheus' known associates, Switch and Apoch. They had managed to exit the Matrix but not unscathed thanks to Jones' accurate marksmanship. Switch had already made the journey to other side when one of Agent Jones' bullets had penetrated the calf muscle of Apoch's leg just as the rebel had reached the telephone booth located on the corner of Wells and Lake. The injury had slowed him down, but not it was enough to detain him. You had let out a frustrated growl as Apoch had grabbed the phone's receiver and placed to his ear just in the nick of time.

The anger and aggravation you had experienced had you all wound up, and you needed something, anything to release the tension that had possessed your body. After the reports to the Mainframe had been transmitted you had retreated to the sanctuary of your private office and found yourself sitting at your desk lazily looking at your computer monitor once again. A weary sigh had escaped your lips as thoughts of the mystery woman tugged at the inner recesses of your mind again. Quickly and without thinking you had retrieved the recording that contained her image from your top desk drawer, and then inserted it into the disc drive of your laptop computer. You had steepled your long, dexterous fingers underneath your chin and waited for the amorous pair to go through the motions of their love play.

As your deep blue eyes watched the scene you had seen a hundred times unfold before you suddenly found that one of your hands had dropped into your lap and had been absentmindedly rubbing your crotch through the material of your well pressed trousers. When you realized what you had been doing you had tried to cease your actions but found that you could not, or rather would not. The sensation of your own hand on your genitals had made you very aroused and yet disgusted all at the same time. The shame you had been feeling made you despise what you were about to do to yourself, but something else had been driving you on and you were compelled to continue.

As had you watched Morpheus caress the woman's supple body for the umpteenth time, cautiously you had looked around and when you made certain that you were truly alone you had slowly unbuckled your belt, followed by unzipping the fly of your pants. Then you severed you connection to the Mainframe by removing your earpiece.

Closing your eyes, you had allowed your head fall back onto the soft pliable neck rest of your black leather chair. Inhaling deeply, you carefully withdrew your erect member from the imprisonment of your pants. Running your thumb across its bulbous head to spread the natural lubricant that had seeped out of it to the shaft, you tried to imagine that it was _her_ hand on you and not your own.

Slowly you had begun to glide your hand up and down your hard throbbing cock as your mind replayed the scene on the disc. Only this time instead of Morpheus suckling her breast as he thrust his engorged penis inside her, it was you. Every moan, every kiss that she had bestowed was for you, and only for you. Groaning deep in your throat, you had stroked yourself even faster, feeling the tension and passion build between you and your fantasy lover. In your mind's eye, you had kissed her deeply, crushing her lips with your own. You remember that you had imagined feeling her long fingernails cutting deep into your flesh as she had grazed them down your bare back in a fit of unbridled passion. And when she finally reached her climax, it was your name that she had shouted, not his. Soon, you had come too, strong and hard as you imagined yourself being buried deep inside her.

Afterwards, you had sat there; shaking, perspiring profusely, and panting like a rabid dog, as the spell had been broken and reality took a hold of you again. When you had finally opened your eyes you found that you were alone with your flaccid penis in your hand and your warm semen running down in white rivulets on your computer screen. However it had not been enough, it would never be until you possessed the object of your desire. You had felt unfulfilled, wanting more than just a one-sided encounter and the secret shame of what you felt had been burning inside you, and it burns still.

When the informant had failed to provide you with more information you grew impatient with his or her incompetence. Turning to your reliable Sentinels, you soon found out due to the intelligence gathered by them, that her hacker alias was Isis and that she served under Captain Ramses of the hovercraft _Luxor. _It didn't take long after that to run her name through the Mainframe's database and cross reference it with the list of missing person's reports.

You had eagerly ripped the report out of the printer, barely waiting for the data to finish being stamped on the paper. With your hands shaking with anticipation, your eyes had read the contents of the report:

_**Name:** Esmeralda de la Caridad Campos_

_**Missing Since:**July 27, 1995_

_**D.O.B:**May 3rd, 1970_

_**Age:**29**Height:** 5' 7" **Weight:** 120 lbs **Eye color:** Hazel green_

_**Sex:** Female **Race**: Hispanic **Place of birth:** Rio Pierdras, Puerto Rico_

_**Mother:** Maria Nieves-Campos – Deceased**Siblings:** None_

_**Father: **Pedro Luis Campos – Deceased**Martial Status:** Single_

_**Location last seen:** Mega City Walk Mall with suspected rebels Mario Suarez also known as Apoch and his associate Deborah Mallory alias Switch._

The report had revealed nothing of her personal life save for the fact that she is an orphan and that she's single. From somewhere deep within your alpha-male frame of mind a hopeful little voice had said, "Good for me".

Now you force yourself back to the present and slowly bring your lust filled gaze to rest on her face. Although her countenance is stoic Isis' terror stricken eyes give her true feelings away as they dart in your direction. Careful not to make any sudden moves, you slowly bring your hands down from your head and allow your weapon to rest casually at your side.

The fear and apprehension that is emanating from her is daunting and yet there is a trace element of another emotion whose signal is faint but growing stronger with every passing second. Your sensors work quickly to read her vital signs and find that her heartbeat has accelerated to an almost startling rate. Her breathing pattern is erratic amplifying the waves of feelings radiating from her body. Then the results of your scan are in, which surprise and please you to no end. A wolfish smile plays on your lips as one of your eyebrows slyly arches up in a very seductive gesture. You see her shudder slightly, but not from fear, as that small motion confirm what your sensors have already told you: she wants you as much as you want her.

You continue to appraise your captive as your hungry greedy eyes fall upon Esmeralda's voluptuous figure. Despite the pseudo military garb she has opted to wear, you can still discern the very womanly curves that are typically associated with Latin females. The round full breasts, accentuated by the flat abdomen and wide curvaceous hips, attributes that would make any man's heart race at the sight of them are now whittling away at your own defenses.

Your lips still smolder as a result of the scorching kiss from just a few moments ago as your body aches to possess the woman lying before you. The obsessive desire that you've felt all these months is burning through your system and it is taking all of your willpower not to take her in your arms and make her yours.

Again your eyes make a desperate swipe at the clock on the wall and it painfully reminds you that the countdown is still in effect leaving you only 35 minutes to perform your duty for the Source like a good little lapdog.

The Source, you think wryly, everything I've ever done has been for the Source, for the common good of the machine mainframe. Not once have I ever asked for anything for myself, I've never needed to. I've always performed my functions without a word of protest, blindly carrying out every order, fulfilling my purpose without question! But now, things are different, _I'm _different! I can no longer deny myself of what I want so much! Just this once I'm going to do what _I_ want and to hell with the common good!

Taking in a deep breath, you begin to advance towards the gurney with bold decisive steps. Esmeralda's eyes widen in astonishment and she asks rather quickly, "What are going to do Smith?"

Your long legs have made quick work of closing the distance between the two of you and now you are looming above her once more. Defiantly she looks up at you with those bewitching eyes, holding you captive in her powerful stare. "What are you going to?" Esmeralda repeats, only this time her words are a husky whisper.

Feeling the weight of your weapon in your hand, you put it back in its holster located inside your jacket. Then placing your hands on the cold hard steel of the gurney you lean in close sliding your cheek along the side of her face. The warmth generating from the contact of your skin on Esmeralda's is inciting yet comforting somehow. She sighs contentedly then inhales sharply as she feels your teeth gently tug her earlobe.

Kissing the outer shell of her ear you whisper your reply to her question "What am I going to do to you Esmeralda? I'm going to do something that I should have done a long time ago."

Entangling the fingers of your right hand in her soft mahogany tresses, you murmur to her "Do you know how long I've wanted this to happen? Of course you don't, how could you? You have no notion of what it's been like for me living with desire, this longing and not been able to express it. I've had to conceal it, deceive the very system I protect, that I am still what they programmed me to be."

Esmeralda is at a loss for words, your recent revelations have dumbfounded her, and you can sense it. Afraid that you might not get another opportunity to express how you feel, you continue to bear your soul to her, "But I am much more than that now, certainly you can see that, can't you Esmeralda?"

Lifting your head away from the warmth of her skin, you look deeply into her eyes searching for some understanding, instead her gaze has grown cold, and her body is rigid. Esmeralda's demeanor confuses you since just a few short moments ago she was so demonstrative, welcoming your advances.

"All I see is a cold blooded killer, Smith, nothing more," she says simply.

The meaning of her words did not escape you; she was still grieving for the lost lives of her companions. Two emotions that you have never experienced before now fight for dominance of your mind: guilt and regret.

It's true that you had killed her friends but you were only following orders. That's it, Smith; lie to yourself if you can, but I know perfectly well that today's mission had nothing to do with ambushing the rebel operatives! You committed murder, snuffed the life of Esmeralda's captain and everyone else she cared about to satisfy your own selfish impulses! You are no better than the human refuse that you hunt and slaughter, your chastising thoughts tell you.

"Esmeralda, I-I'm sorry for…" you begin to say before your voice trails off.

"Sorry for what? For killing my friends, for taking the only people that ever meant anything to me since I've been set free? Do you know that I considered them my family? Do you even care? No, of course you don't. You don't know what it's like to depend on someone, or to love someone. Now, thanks to you, I'm alone again!" she screams at you, her words cutting you to the quick. She then breaks out in inconsolable sobs, as the sorrow she has held at bay comes gushing forth.

Instinctively your drape your arms around her still restrained form and your feel her flinch from the contact.

"I hate you! If I had my way I'd blow up every single power plant in the Matrix so that all of you machine mother-fuckers would die!" Esmeralda said between her anguished sobs

You find yourself at a loss, not knowing how to handle a weeping female. You are not programmed to console or offer words of comfort. The only things that you know at this moment are that your desire for her has remained undiminished and that time is winding down. Without another word, your hands cup her tear-streaked face as you bring your lips down on Esmeralda's.

At first she resists you and tries to tear herself away from your hold on her, but as your kiss deepens she slowly begins to return your ardor. Your mouth opens invitingly signaling to her that you want to meld your tongue with hers. She gladly accepts your invitation as you feel her tongue enter your waiting mouth. The sensation of this joining of your mouths elicits a throaty groan from her, as your hands roam the lushness of her body.

With eager trembling fingers you caress her face then they begin to move down her long neck followed by the protruding clavicle bones then finally resting on the swell of her ample bosom. Through the thin material of her T-shirt your hands gently squeeze her full breasts as you marvel at the how heavy and wonderful they feel.

Esmeralda moans into your mouth then breaks contact with your lips to tell you the words that you've waited to hear from her for so long, "Make love to me Smith. I don't care anymore what happens to me. I'm going to die anyway, so I might as well make this my last request."

The sound of those words, the sight of her swollen and moist lips cause you to become undone. Nothing matters to you right now except complying with this human female's request, to her fulfill her last wish and bring your fantasy to life. You immediately lift her T-shirt to reveal her cleavage enclosed in the laciness of a black brassiere. To your supreme delight you notice that her nipples are very erect as they try to poke through the flimsy material of the bra. Luckily for you, the undergarment fastens in the front so your nimble fingers make quick work on unhooking the clasp. A gasp escapes you as your eyes look upon Esmeralda's naked breasts for the first time. You are awestruck, completely enthralled with this vision of beauty displayed before you. Wishing to pay homage you lower your hungry mouth to one of her nipples. Taking in the hard rosy nub into the moistness of your oral cavity, you begin to suckle it in earnest. You feel Esmeralda arch her back in an attempt to push her breast deeper into your mouth, which prompts you to flick the very tip of it with your long tongue.

"Smith, oh God, I want you so badly, but this isn't fair! I want to touch you too, please untie me," she begs with a sexy whimper in her tone.

You hesitate and cease to kiss her breast to lift your head to look at her. The expression on her face is one of genuine desire, but even in your heightened state of arousal, you still know that one could never be too careful. As much as you want to have Esmeralda's hands on your body, untying her would be foolish on your part.

"Esmeralda, I can't and you know why. If I remove your restraints you could try to escape. I can't not allow that to happen, and don't forget, you are being held at bureau headquarters. This building is crawling with agents; you wouldn't stand a chance."

"I don't care about escaping, not anymore. All I want right now is this moment with you. I promise to be a good girl, _a very good girl_," she responds putting emphasis on the last part of her statement with a mischievous smile.

Goddamn it, why does she have to be so enticing, you ask yourself. Your logic and body war against each other for the briefest of moments, as each tries take control over you. You know that if you untie her there's a chance that she'll do something stupid, but the raging bulge in your pants is willing to take the risk.

Wordlessly you reach into your pants pocket and retrieve the key that will unlock the shackles around her wrists and ankles. You hesitate slightly when you realize that you are still wearing your jacket and gun holster. Removing both the garment and the holder for your weapon off of your person, you set them on a nearby metallic chair away from Esmeralda's reach. Then you proceed with freeing her from her restraints. Once her wrists are no longer bound, Esmeralda begins to rub them in an attempt to bring back the circulation of blood.

Next you unshackle her ankles, one at a time, and then shove the key back into your pocket. Sitting up slightly off the surface of the gurney, Esmeralda gives you a smoldering come hither stare that pushes you over the edge sanity and need. Right or wrong, you just don't give a damn anymore; she's all you want.

Mirroring the yearning in your eyes, Esmeralda begins to shed the outer layers of her clothes, starting with her leather jacket, followed by her T-shirt, tight fitting pants and footwear. All you can do is watch, mesmerized by the impromptu strip tease, as she now is scantily clad in only her black lacy thong panties.

"Smith, why am I the only one taking off my clothes here? I want to see if you agents are anatomically correct or are you all built like a Ken doll?" she inquires impishly.

You give her a smirk as you begin to remove your own garments, revealing your body to her one section at a time. Esmeralda licks her full lips as her eyes take in the sight of your well-muscled torso. She smiles then says admiringly, "I never knew that you were such a hairy beast, Agent Smith. _Me gusta mucho_."

You return the smile as you muse to yourself; you haven't seen anything yet! You step out of your shoes, and then remove your black socks. Now, standing before an obviously excited Esmeralda, barefoot with just your pants on, you commence to remove the final pieces of clothing that shield your manhood from her field of vision.

After you had unbuckled your belt, you slide your pants down your legs, and then step out of them, leaving you in just your silk black boxers. Your underwear however did nothing to conceal the very obvious protuberance struggling to break free from its silky confinement.

"Hmmm, Smith, is that your Desert Eagle in your boxers, or are you just glad to see me?" she asks suggestively.

With a sly twinkle in your eye you glide the boxers off revealing your impressive genitalia to her. A sense of pride comes over you as you see Esmeralda's jaw drop at the sight of it.

"_Dios mió, Papi!" _Esmeralda exclaims.

She watches you with uncontained lust as you stride over to her with slow deliberateness. Not wishing to wait for your arrival, she gets up from the gurney and starts to walk towards you. You meet in the center of the room; the heat from both of bodies is overwhelming as her musky scent intoxicates your senses. Unlike the males of her species, Esmeralda smells wonderful. You deduce that it must be her pheromones that are calling to your basic primal male urges.

A sigh escapes you as you feel her warm supple hands slide up your ribcage to finally rest on your broad hairy chest. Closing your eyes you revel in the sensation of her fingers massaging your pectoral muscles. Then a long finger nail grazes one of your nipples, causing a small hiss to emanate from your clenched teeth. Esmeralda begins to cover your skin with soft wet kisses as your draw her into your strong embrace.

The feel of her warm skin underneath the palms of your hands as you caress her bare back is incredible, it is nothing like you've ever imagined. The only previous contact you've ever had with a human had been in the heat combat for purpose bringing about their ultimate demise. How could you have known that intimacy like this existed between men and women? She kisses your neck, slowly, agonizingly working her way up to your mouth. You grow impatient with her teasing and you take matters into your own hands. Firmly placing your strong hands on her luscious bottom, you pull her pelvis in to make contact with your pulsating member as your mouth takes possession of hers.

Your tongues and lips battle for supremacy as you and Esmeralda try to outdo each other's technique. After a few moments of passionate kisses that leave you positively breathless, it is clearly she that has the advantage over you. The way she sucks on your lower lip then slightly bites on it with her teeth drives you out of your mind.

As your desire grows, so does your sense of urgency. Time is definitely not on your side and it will only be a matter of minutes before Brown and Jones burst through the door and find you in a very compromising position with the rebel you are suppose to be interrogating. You must take her now or there will never be another chance.

You attempt to push her back on the gurney so that you can pry her long legs open and bury your aching organ to the hilt inside her warm moist center. However Esmeralda has other plans on how to consummate your union.

With a salacious smile on her lips she says, "Wait Smith, there's something I want to show you."

Your patience is wearing thin and there is no time for games but before you can voice your objections Esmeralda has dropped to her knees before you in a subservient pose. The sudden sweet sublimity of her mouth and lips wrapping themselves around the rigidity of your member catch you by complete surprise and has now rendered you speechless. The combination of her hot wet mouth and her soft hands caressing your scrotum is excruciatingly perfect and force you to bury your fingers in the tangle of her long brown hair losing yourself in the moment. Basic instincts take over as you begin to propel your pelvis forward to shove the girth of your manhood deeper into Esmeralda's working mouth. The rocking motion of your hips has picked up her rhythm and matches it thrust for thrust.

You feel as if you are about be hurtled over the edge of a great precipice, and fall into a sea of ecstasy. Never suspecting for one infinitesimal instant that it was about come to an abrupt and painful end when unexpectedly Esmeralda's teeth bite down hard on your penis.

The pain and anguish you experience is excruciating and with a loud howl you release her hair then slam your hands on your injured crotch, your naked body plummets the floor in a fetal position as you whimper pathetically. Quick as a flash, the treacherous Esmeralda runs towards the weapon you had placed on the chair, picks it up and aims it straight at you.

With a scornful sneer on her lips she yells, "You make me sick! You actually think that I would ever want a bucket of bolts like you? You killed my friends, Smith! I would _never_ lower myself to screw their executioner!"

Feeling bewildered and betrayed you quickly recover from your physical ordeal then effortlessly lift yourself off of the floor. Growling like a predatory animal you respond, "You are going to regret what you've done, you miserable bitch! Of that you can be certain!"

"Not before you pay for what you did to my crewmates you murdering bastard!" she spits back with all of the contempt she can muster. Raising your own weapon against you, Esmeralda then declares, "I have nothing left to lose and I'm not afraid to die! I'll do whatever it takes to get the fuck away from you!"

"So you plan on killing me and waltz out of here, Isis? As I told you before, you don't stand a snowball's chance in hell! Go ahead, fire the gun. You'll be dead before you get chance to empty the chamber." You look at the clock once more. Shit, only ten minutes to spare.

A strange expression washes over Esmeralda's face, as her green eyes lock on yours.

"Well, Smith I can't argue with your machine's logic. Once again you're right. _Adios,_ Agent Smith."

Her words resonate with finality and you soon realize to your own horror what her true intentions are.

As she places the muzzle of the Desert Eagle to her temple, her finger wraps tightly around the trigger. You start to run towards Esmeralda with an agent's velocity in an attempt to stop her from firing the firearm.

Almost there, almost there, you tell yourself as your legs pump faster. Your hand stretches out in front of you as you try to make a grab for the weapon, but despite your best efforts, you are already too late.

With triumph sparkling in the emerald colored pools of her eyes, Esmeralda squeezes the trigger. You hear the unmistakable sound of a shot being fired followed by your grief-stricken cry, "Esmeralda, no! Oh my God, no!"

End Chapter Two


	3. Confessions

**Prisoner of War**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Matrix, the Matrix owns me.

**Summary:** Have no fear, my dear readers. Esmeralda has failed at her suicide attempt thanks to Agent Smith's quick reflexes. However our rebel diva has been momentarily stunned and rendered unconscious. In the meanwhile, Smith is prepared to go to any lengths to get he wants. He's already killed for her, but would he be willing to lie to the Source and risk deletion or live an exiled existence to satisfy his lust? You'll have to read on if you want to find out, and while you are at it please take the time to review.

I would like to thank all of you that were kind enough to let me know what you think of the story so far.

**Author's Note:** This chapter is told from Esmeralda's POV in second person format.

**Warning:** Again there will be sex and plenty of it. If you are a prude or a born again Christian then turn back now before you're corrupted, as for all of you other naughty gals and gents, enjoy!

In addition the latter half of this chapter will take place in Esmeralda's nightmare where a very evil Agent Smith will ravage her. Needless to say it will be dark, foreboding and not for the fainthearted. Again, if this is not for you, then turn back now!

Chapter Three

Confessions

"Esmeralda, no! Oh my God no!" were the last words that Agent Smith had said to you before the world went black. Prior to being cast into the abysmal darkness of the void, you had seen Smith running towards you at such incredible velocity that the very structure of the Matrix had bended and concaved around him. The walls of the interrogation room warped inwardly as if they were being crushed like an empty soda can as result of the speed at which Smith was moving. It was a sight to behold and for a split second you had marveled at the strange phenomenon with stunned wonderment.

As you had put the gun to your head, images of your life had flashed rapidly before your eyes, they were the reflections of a fabricated existence. False memories of your mother helping you blow out your birthday candles on your fifth birthday, followed by happy scenes of warm family gatherings, Christmas celebrations of years gone by danced before your eyes. Sadly every single recollection had been a lie.

You then recalled the day you met Ramses and how he had later set you free. Zion then came into view and your life there. Memories of dancing with Ramses and Anubis at a temple gathering in joyous celebration of true freedom had melded and melted into the counterfeit reminiscence of your father leading you in your first waltz at your _quinceañera_. His warm smile, the feel of your tiny hand in his large calloused one seemed so real to you, so comforting and safe. Despite the knowledge that your childhood memories were nothing more than scripted falsehoods, you couldn't help longing to see your _Papa_ again and now with the aid of Smith's gun you wouldn't have wait any longer.

"Adios, Agent Smith," you had said with dignity. You knew that you were doing the right thing. It was the only way out of this impossible situation. Then just before pulling the trigger you had sent up a silent prayer to the spirit of your father, I'm coming home _Papa_, your little Esmeralda is coming home.

You now find yourself floating through a dark tunnel and in the distance you see a pinpoint of light. At first it is very faint and seems so far away but nevertheless you are drawn to it. As you continue to drift forward it becomes brighter, and larger like a fiery super nova the closer you get. The light's luminescent glow is warm, peaceful and its pull is powerful. What emanates from the radiance you are beholding is pure joy and love. Somehow you know that this is right, wonderful and it feels like home. You prepare yourself to welcome whatever is waiting for you at the end of the tunnel. Desperately you want to become a part of the awesome power that is calling to you and washing over you in a peaceful wave. Converging with the communal collective of enlightened souls that await you in the great beyond is your only solemn wish.

"_Esmeralda"_, someone's voice softly says, like a whisper on the wind. The sound of your own name was so faint at first, that you think that it is a figment of your overactive imagination.

"_Esmeralda!"_ there it is again, only this time it is stronger, more forceful. Then without warning you suddenly sense an unseen force start to roughly tug at you, pulling you away from the mystical illumination as if you are caught in a strong undertow. You begin to struggle against the invisible hands that are dragging you back into the shadows of the tunnel by twisting your body and kicking your legs.

Your mouth opens as you try to scream for help, but your throat feels constricted, silencing your vocal faculties. Now the voice that spoke your name calls out to you again in a familiar tone.

I know that voice, you tell yourself, ceasing your attempt to escape when you realize to whom the voice belongs to. No, please God no!

"_Wake up, Esmeralda! I know you can hear me!" _intoned the disembodied voice, as your heart is struck with fear and disappointment. There is no mistaking its owner. You know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the rich deep baritone with the menacing undercurrent could only belong to…

_Smith? It can't be! I shot myself to get away from you! I am supposed to be dead!_

Finally finding your voice you say out loud, "I'm dead, don't you understand? I am free of you, and your fucking Matrix!"

There is no response except the echo of your own words reverberating on the walls of the channel. Then the abrupt sensation of someone's hands clamping themselves onto your shoulders and start to shake your body greatly startles you. Once again you try to break free, as your fingernails find the walls of the tunnel and start clawing, but whoever has a hold of you is much too powerful.

You scream, hoping that the sound of your voice will scare off your unseen assailant, but you continue to be thrashed about like a helpless rag doll.

"Let me go! Let me go! LET ME GO!"

"_Wake up Esmeralda, it's only a dream! Open your eyes!"_

Your eyelids being to flutter furiously, as the voice that you've now positively identified as Smith's tells you again to open your eyes.

"_Abre tus ojos, Esmeralda!" _he commands you in your native tongue.

You wish to remain where you are but you know that Smith won't let you. So very much against your will, your eyes open slowly only to find the hated sight of Agent Smith's shielded gaze looking down at you as his hands are still shaking you into full consciousness.

* * *

"I must have pissed God off in the worst way, because if I'm dead then I'm in hell!" you ferociously growl at your captor, slapping his hands off your shoulders.

"God damn you, Smith! Why didn't you let me die, _por que_?" you ask him anxiously as your head pounds from a massive headache. Groaning with pain, you bring your hand to your head and discover that it has been bandaged. You conclude that Smith must have tended to your wound while you were cataleptic, but why? Your blurry vision can still make out the agent's silhouette, sensing that his proximity to you is uncomfortably close.

His brings his hands down to rest at his sides as he looks contemplatively at you. After what seems like an eternity he finally gives you his answer, and it chills you to the bone, "Because I still want you, Isis and I mean to have you any way I can."

Oh my fucking Christ! What in the hell does he mean by having me any way he can, your mind questions frantically. He can't be serious? Smith is a goddamned program; he can't be feeling anything towards me. It's impossible!

_Impossible? Come on _chica_, who are you kidding? You saw the way he was enjoying your oral talents, and despite the fact that you almost bit off his wiener, you loved the feel of him being inside your mouth_, says the nagging little voice inside your head.

Shut up! Shut up, shut up! I only did what I had to do to get away! Any woman in my position would have done the same!

_Sure they would have. They would have let Smith paw and slobber all over them then drop to their knees like a ten-dollar _puta, _just like you did. So much for being a Latina of the '90's, you've probably set back the entire women's liberation movement with that little stunt. Way to go Isis!_

The pain in your head only heightens your self-deprecating thoughts. You try your best to ignore them and turn your focus back on Smith.

With a raspy voice you ask him, "What happened? Why am I still alive?"

"You are alive because despite your best efforts to destroy yourself, I've managed to save you," he replies with a touch of arrogance.

"How? I had the gun pointed at my head, there's no way you could have stopped the bullet from entering my skull from halfway across the room! It is physically impossible!"

Smith smirks mockingly at you as he says, "My, my, my Miss Campos, how quickly we forget! Didn't your rebel training teach you anything? This is the Matrix. In here the laws of gravity and physics do not apply to the mind that has been set free, or has reached a certain state of enlightenment, Nirvana if you will. Isn't that what your ridiculous dogma tells you?"

"Fuck you, Smith!" you retort, angry with yourself for not thinking of a better comeback.

He chuckles a bit, arches one of his eyebrows over the rim of his sunglasses then says devilishly, "In due time, Esmeralda, in due time."

"Don't flatter yourself! You still haven't answered my question, how did you save me?" your demand is tense and infused with loathing.

"Very well, I will try to break it down to the simplest explanation possible, although I seriously doubt that your tiny human brain will be able to grasp what I am about to tell you. I saw that you had picked up my sidearm and what your intentions were. I was also acutely aware that I only had a few seconds to prevent your untimely demise. I simply used my superior abilities to divert the bullet's trajectory so that it only grazed you, thus avoiding your death."

"Wait a minute, we were both naked, I remember you running towards me in the nude. Why are we now fully dressed?" you ask suspiciously. During your exchange with the arrogant agent, your vision was becoming clearer and now you allow your eyes to roam around the very unfamiliar surroundings. Gone are the stark white walls of the sterile interrogation room, as you notice the trappings of an extravagantly elegant yet tastefully decorated boudoir. The furnishings are ornate and definitely masculine revealing the occupant's sense of style and flair.

The hard cold surface of the metal gurney you had been strapped down to has now been replaced by the firmness of a comfortable mattress covered by a luxurious cream and burgundy colored jacquard bed comforter and expensive matching designer sheets. You also discover that your head has been resting on a fluffy pillow.

What the fuck is going on? How did I get here, you wonder to yourself.

As if he had read your mind and right on cue, Smith interjects, drawling on with his long-winded elucidation, "You are quite right, we were without the benefit of clothing, which I found to be quite liberating, I might add." He punctuates his statement with a predatory smile.

All you could do is roll your eyes to show your disgust at Smith's last comment. The continuous throbbing pain in your head is causing you to feel very nauseous. The pulsating pounding feels like a herd of elephants stomping around in your head, making you want to puke on Agent Smith's shiny black Italian designer shoes in the worst way.

Unfazed by your obvious repugnance, Smith goes on, "Suffice to say that the same aptitude that allows me to dodge bullets or alter their course, also gives me the power to manipulate certain Matrix codes if I so desire. Hence our change of wardrobe, but you are also probably wondering how you've arrived here, I'll get to that part soon enough."

"Smith what about the hour you were given to get the information you needed? There was a deadline! You were supposed to kill me no matter what happened during the interrogation, and if you didn't kill me then most certainly those two assholes waiting outside the door would have gladly done it for you!"

You blush furiously, feeling the blood rush to the surface of your skin. Your ears feel hot as the thought of the two agents that you had seen earlier eavesdropping on the opposite side of the door pisses you off. They must have listened to everything you and Smith had said and done to each other, the idea of it thoroughly embarrasses you.

They must have gotten an earful.

"If by 'assholes' you mean my fellow agents, Brown and Jones, then yes, they would have carried out their orders. Luckily for you, however, when the bullet abraded your skin it still created a very bloody surface wound. As you may already know, no matter how superficial a head injury is, the bloodletting is usually quite substantial in quantity because of the amount blood needed to carry oxygen to the human brain."

"Spare me the anatomy lesson, agent," you spit at Smith, not bothering to hide the contempt you are feeling.

Still wanting to get to bottom of the mystery of your continued well-being you say, "Besides it still doesn't explain how I got here!"

Annoyed by your constant interruptions Smith's responds with a low and dangerous growl, "If you utter another word, not only will I not tell you what transpired, I will make good on your suicide attempt by pulling the trigger myself! Have I made myself perfectly clear, Esmeralda?"

As the gravity of his words sinks in, you nod dumbly acknowledging his threat.

After he is assured of your cooperation and silence, Agent Smith proceeds with his revealing dissertation, "Now as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, the bullet from my gun had only grazed your temple, but the force at which I diverted its trajectory had knocked you out cold.

Naturally I had quickly checked for vital signs and found that you indeed still had a pulse, albeit a weak one. With only mere milliseconds to spare before my collegues burst into the room to investigate the source of the gunshot, I manipulated the appropriate lines of codes that restored our garments thus saving you from any impropriety."

_How gallant of him, don't you think, Isis, _asks the little voice that lives in your head.

Both you and Smith can fuck off!

Then much to your vexation, Smith continues to drone on, "However there was still one minor detail that needed to be addressed. Regardless to the fact that you were in an almost comatose state of deep unconsciousness, it would never convince my associates that your demise was genuine. So I injected a dose of one of the many agency approved drugs used in standard interrogations to simulate your death, GHB."

Shocked, bewildered and dismayed, you can hardly believe the words that the agent has just uttered. Smith shrugs his shoulders in response to the shocked look on your face as he says nonchalantly, "It was already on hand in the interrogation room along with other instruments of inquisition."

As the magnitude of what he is telling you is starting to spread through your mind like a malignant growth, you angrily ask," Mother of God, you gave me the _date rape_ drug? You bastard! Who in the hell do think you are? What gives you the right to pump that shit into me?" you roar at your captor.

"Please, Esmeralda," he starts to respond, dismissing your words with a wave of his hand, "let's not be so overdramatic, shall we? GHB, if administered correctly, will only affect a human being's central nervous system temporarily. More importantly it causes the heart rate to dramatically drop as well as cease all motor functions. Although there is still brain activity, it is undetectable to an agent's naked eye. A CAT scan or an EKG would have to be performed in order to determine if there are still signs of life."

With a blind rage coursing through your battered body, you try lift yourself off the bed in an attempt to swipe at Smith, but the pain and wooziness cause you to fall short of your goal. Falling back onto your pillow, you let out a frustrated howl, as tears well up in your eyes. Impotence and disappointment weigh you down, as you resist the inability to control what is happening to you.

Too weak to move, the fight in you is all tapped out for the moment, realizing you have no choice but to lie on this strange bed and listen to Smith's prattling. With any luck though, you'll probably pass out from boredom.

Smith in the meanwhile has sat himself down on the edge of the bed to face you; removing his sunglasses he places them carefully onto the marbled surface of the nightstand. He looks down upon you with a clinical eye, scanning you perhaps for further signs of distress.

In spite of the hate you feel for this machine the shocking color of his eyes continues to astound you. The depth and brilliance of his gaze remind you of the crystal blue waters of the Caribbean where you used to swim in as a child. You remember how the warm frothy waves of the sea would wash over your sun-kissed skin as you played with your parents on the beaches of Isla Verde.

Your early childhood had been spent frolicking the days away exploring your island home of Puerto Rico. Your mother had taught you its history from the earliest records of the Taino Indian settlements to the time of the Spanish invasion. The hiking expeditions you and your mother went on always contained an element of adventure and discovery as she would take you to every nook and cranny of the island in search of its rich and proud past. Because of this you were instilled with a sense of pride for your heritage at an early age.

Your father on the other hand shared with you his love of music, especially the _musica criollo _or Creole music, a lively mix of African percussion and the acoustic guitar riffs of the Spanish _conquistadors_. Papa had been a bandleader in his younger days and was quite an accomplished musician, mastering the flute, piano and guitar. He would still play his music from time to time with his former band on balmy summer evenings. The sounds of the waves lapping at the Puerto Rican shore seemed to accompany the rhythm of the music, and to you it was magical. You used to listen to your father and his friends play for hours on the front porch of your beachfront house as you danced until your Mama would come to fetch you and put you to bed.

But like all good things, your idyllic life had come to an end when your father was offered a well paying position as a music professor on the mainland. Despite your mother's protests, everything you had ever owned were packed away into boxes and shipped to your new home in Mega City. The rest as they say, is history.

The feel of Smith's hand on your forehead abruptly rips you away from your reminiscing. Jerking your head away from his probing fingers you say with a threatening whisper, "Don't you dare fucking touch me, ever! "

Seemingly unmoved by your pathetic attempt to sound in command of your faculties, Smith respond curtly, "I was merely trying to detect if you had caused yourself further injury. You really shouldn't try to move around so much, Esmeralda. You need to give yourself the proper time to rest so that you may fully recover."

"Recover to what end, Smith?" you ask, "So that you can have a healthy target when you and your agent goon squad hunt me down again?"

With an exasperated sigh, he replies, "No, Isis. You may not believe this but harming you was never my intention."

"You're right, Smith, I don't believe you. Give me one good reason why I should."

His reply shakes the very foundations of your beliefs, "Because I have placed myself in the most precarious situation that a program can be in, and as a result I may face deletion or exile."

Curiosity gets the better you, wanting to know what could possibly be the cause of Smith's destruction you ask, "What could have happened that would doom the great and powerful Agent Smith?"

He sighs in resignation as he replies, "I've committed the highest offense that a being such as my self could perpetuate against his own kind."

By now, you are hanging onto every word Smith utters as the truth is painfully revealed to you.

With trembling lips you bring yourself to ask your next question, "What, Smith? What is it?"

His tortured eyes lock onto yours, once again feeling his gaze reaching into the very soul of what you are.

"Treason, Esmeralda, I've committed treason," he firmly replies.

* * *

With wide wild eyes you return Smith's hard gaze. Disbelief and denial grip the outer fringes of your mind. It's not possible, you think hysterically, Smith wouldn't betray the machines, he couldn't, it's not part of his programming.

_Oh yeah? Well kissing and groping you isn't part of his software package either._

Squeezing your eyes shut, you try not to listen to the little know-it-all that resides in your mind, but she will not be silenced.

_Isis, oh Isis, _the voice calls out to you mockingly.

_I know that you're trying to ignore me, but guess what? You're going to listen what I have to say like it or not! Smith is not himself and you know it! You've known this since the moment he captured you! Don't you think that if he wanted to kill you he would have done it by now? Or better yet, he would have allowed the bullet you tried to fire into your brain do the deed for him!_

I'm not listening to you, shut up; you fire back at your conscience.

_Girl, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to see what's going on here! He wants you and he will do anything to have you. He's said as much. Come on, what is his crime against the machines? Think, Isis, think! Consorting with the enemy, or in other words, _fucking_ with them!_

Yeah right, he's done all this because he wants a booty call? Hello? He's a freaking machine!

_Keep deluding yourself, but you know deep down inside what I'm saying is true. And besides, you want him too, don't you try to deny it!_

"Shut up, you stupid bitch!" you say out loud, as Smith is taken aback by your outburst.

"Esmeralda, are you all right?" he asks, the grim expression on his face replaced by one of compassionate concern.

"I'm o.k." you reply quickly, maybe a little too quickly. You see Smith's eyes narrow into two blue slits of suspicion.

"Please don't lie to me, Esmeralda. We're beyond the point of petty deceptions, aren't we?"

"My head just hurts, that's all. I'll be fine, really," you say, trying to sound convincing to the machine that is not only your captor and jailer, but now your savior as well.

"Very well, I realize that these revelations may have upset you. We can resume this conversation once you are feeling better."

"But, Smith…" you begin to protest, but you are swiftly hushed by Smith's index finger being brought up to your lips.

"You need your rest, Esmeralda," Smith says gently. Then he gracefully gets up from the edge of the bed and starts to walk towards the door.

Then as an afterthought, Agent Smith slowly turns to face you, "I have to go now. There are some matters that I must attend to, but I'll return as soon as I can. If there is anything you need just call the _concierge_, he will take very good care of you. If you need to take something for the pain, I've supplied the medicine cabinet with a bottle of Demerol and some antibiotics to ward off infection."

Without thinking you say, "Thank you, Smith"

"Oh and one more thing, don't try anything funny with the pills, Isis. I've saved your life once, but I don't know if I can perform that feat twice."

Something deep inside of you knows that your suicidal tendencies were just a momentary act of desperation not to be repeated. You slowly respond, "I won't O.D. if that's what you're worried about."

His lips curl up in what appeared to be a slight smile, but it disappears as fast it came. He then makes an about-face and silently exits the room, leaving you alone with your recriminating contemplations.

* * *

Shortly after Smith left, you fall into a restless sleep. Your slumber is the direct result of your body surrendering to total exhaustion, but it will not be a peaceful one…

_Hellish images of death and destruction grapple with your subconscious as your dreams hurl you into the battle to end all battles, the final war between man and machine, the Second Renaissance: Armageddon. _

This can't be happening_, you tell yourself. You've only seen some of the historical data that had managed to survive the war in the Zion Archive, but it had been enough to demonstrate the enormity of the conflict. But this all happened a century before I was born. Why am I here in this time, this place?_

_A loud crashing sound behind you causes you to jump, you dare not turn around but you know that the machines are in hot pursuit._

No time for analysis, haul ass girl, move!

_Your body reacts as instinct takes over. You start to run towards the scorched landscape of what once was a shining city of glass and steel, now reduced to nothing but smoldering ruins by the machines. Overhead your eyes behold the horror of a black gloomy sky choked by thick rolling clouds that block out any source of light or warmth from the sun. The only illumination is the cracking lightening ripping across the heavens. _

_The screams and moans of those unlucky survivors emanating from the wreckage, alerts you to the fact that they've been found by their metallic adversaries in the aftermath of the carnage. You try to drown out their cries of despair and anguish by placing your hands over your ears, but it's no good you can still hear them. You want to help but you know that if you do, you will be captured as well. So you do what you are driven to do, run for your very life._

_So you keep going, moving as quickly as you can through the debris, your heavy combat boots crunching over what you soon realize are the skeletal remains of your human brethren. The ground is littered with bones as far as the eye can see. _

_You try to desperately find shelter from the onslaught of the enemy but every building in sight has been leveled or gutted out. There's nowhere to hide. Then suddenly there's a glimmer of hope as you catch sight of someone in the distance, a lone darkly clad man standing in the center of the chaos seemingly untouched by it. _

_A wicked violent wind kicks up and starts whipping through his auburn hair. And yet, despite this, he remains stoically unflappable, like a statue of stone. He then silently beckons to you, motioning you over to him with a gesture of his hand. Unsure of his intentions, you hesitate until you hear him speak your name._

"_Esmeralda, hurry, there's no time. We must leave this place, now!"_

_Disbelievingly you say, "Smith, is that you?"_

_But your voice is lost in the incredible roar of the wind; its velocity has been steadily getting stronger with each passing minute._

"_Hurry, Esmeralda," he says again, his voice a booming harbinger of impending doom. He then adds, "They're almost here and I don't know what they'll do to you if they catch you."_

_Lurching forward, you try to run towards him, but your legs feel as if they are weighted down. The power of the wind pushes you back, almost knocking you to the dusty soil below your feet. No matter how much to try to go forward you've gained little ground. Smith is still so very far away, unreachable and unattainable. _

_Just then a colossal shadow covers the mass of land you are standing on, casting you further into darkness. The mechanical clicking and whirring resonance that you now hear makes your blood run cold. The deafening noise can only be produced by one thing, an HK-100, a hunter/killer, a Sentinel. You turn around slowly and come face to face with a machine whose sole purpose is to exterminate all remnants of human life on earth, and now it's here for you. As its glowing red visors bore into your wide terror filled eyes and you can't help but tremble. _

_Whirling around quickly, you start to call out to Smith, beseeching him to help you, to save you from your monstrous fate, but he is gone. The spot where he was just standing is vacant. Your heart sinks as you survey the barren and desolate wasteland that is being further ravaged by the howling wind._

_Then you hear the mechanical abomination behind you speak with a hollow voice devoid of any compassion or empathy. _

"_Surrender human and turn over your flesh, we demand it!"_

"_No, I will not!" you shout out defiantly into the wind as you turn back to face your enemy and executioner. However you gasp in horror when you see that Agent Smith is now standing where the Sentinel had once been._

"_Surrender human," he repeats coldly. The expression on his face is stoic, lifeless. His voice is a flat and emotionless monotone. The blue eyes that had once held such depth of feeling are now masked by the impenetrable shield of his dark sunglasses, rendering them to be indecipherable. This Smith is a far cry from the one that had held you in his arms and almost made love to you. _

"_Smith," you begin to say, trying to make a desperate plea to the spark of humanity he so willingly demonstrated to you. "It's me, Esmeralda, remember? What's wrong with you?"_

_Wordlessly he continues to stare at you, he then reaches up to slowly remove his sunglasses and reveal his eyes to you. What you see makes you shriek in terror. You try to look away from this terrible vision, to avert your gaze elsewhere, but you are powerless to do so. To your complete and utter horror Smith's azure colored orbs have been replaced by two black soulless pits. Fathomless, empty and bleak, they are the eyes of the damned. Then suddenly to your surprise you see a flicker of green flash inside the lifeless sockets. Out of sickening curiosity, you move closer to him, wanting to see what the eerie emerald flare is._

_Your own eyes widen in horror as you clap your hand over your mouth to stifle a scream. Your mind is frantically trying to process what you have just seen, trying to make sense of it all._

It's code, for the love of Christ, it's Matrix code, _your perplexed subconscious informs you. _

_Indeed the green cascading streams of light were the very same lines of code you had seen scrolling down the computer monitors onboard the _Luxor.

_You try to turn and flee but Smith is much too quick for your puny human reflexes. He easily catches up and halts your retreat. His hands grip your upper arms like two metal vises. You struggle to get away, but you soon grow tired, too weak to fight him off. Next you feel your clothes being savagely stripped off your body as one of his hands tugs at the long tangle of your hair. Before long you are left naked and vulnerable, shivering as the cold wind sweeps across your exposed goose pimpled skin._

_Turning you around to face him, you begin to whimper, "Please Smith, don't do this! I know that you're better than this, better than them, the goddamned machines that created you!"_

_However, your pleas for mercy fall on deaf ears as you see him reach down to start unbuckling his pants. He grabs your hair once more forcing you to look at his groin area as he fumbles with his zipper. Next his hand slips into the open fly of his pants to draw out what you think will be his penis. But instead of a pulsating erect member, he unleashes a gleaming metallic shaft complete with rotating gears and cogs. Cocking his head to one side he looks at you with his nightmarish eyes then smiles._

Oh God, he means to put that thing inside me! No dear Jesus, no!

_Agent Smith lets go of your hair then throws you down onto the craggy ground below. You scream in pain when you feel the jutting bones that shoot up from the earth pierce your flesh. Soon he is on top of you, pinning you down so that you can't get away. You try to squeeze your legs shut to deny Smith entry into your body, but soon enough he has pried them wide open with one powerful hand. With the other he cruelly squeezes your breasts. You squirm and thrash your body about, but to no avail. He's got you right where he wants you._

This can't be happening, this is just a dream! Wake up girl, this isn't real!

_Smith's dead eyes look upon your dirt and tear streaked face, and says, "Surrender, and turn over your flesh, I demand it, require it and it shall be mine!"_

_Real or not, you scream when the sensation of Smith's instrument of torment swiftly and decisively tears into your vagina causing it to bleed. You beg him to stop, but he continues to penetrate you over and over again with battering piston-like thrusts ripping your tender flesh apart. Your hands have clenched themselves into two little fist that start to pummel away at Smith's chest, but he seems unmoved by your attempts to get him to stop. He is driven, purposeful and determined to continue to violate you in the vilest way possible._

_You cry and shriek with all of your strength, until your throat is raw from the effort, "Wake up Esmeralda! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!"_

End Chapter Three


	4. Mother's Advice

**Prisoner of War**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the Matrix, the Matrix owns me.

**Summary: **Agent Smith makes a visit to dear old "Mom", the Oracle. Although he has never wanted nor needed her counsel before, his conflicting and ever growing feelings for Esmeralda compel him to seek her guidance. What will the Oracle see about the future of her son's burgeoning relationship with his beautiful rebel captive? Read on to find out.

**Author's Note:** This is written in second person format from Smith's POV. A great big thank you goes out to those of you that chose to let me know what you think of my work.

**Chapter Four**

**Mother's Advice**

"Hello, 'Mom'," you say in a clipped greeting. As your eyes survey the shabby looking apartment you are reminded that you didn't want to come here in the first place, but given the urgent nature of your situation, you really didn't have any choice.

IIIIII

After you had left the sanctuary of the hotel where you had taken Isis for temporary refuge, you had gotten into your shiny black Audi sedan and driven around aimlessly for hours. You had decided that returning to the agency would be definitely out of the question. Surely Jones and Brown were anxiously waiting to bombard you with their endless inquires about what had transpired in the last thirty-six hours since you left with an allegedly dead rebel's body in tow.

You neither had the time nor the inclination to deal with their probing questions.

With no real destination or purpose you mindlessly drove through Mega City's upper eastside where the rich and affluent lived.

As the car had zoomed by the expensive high-rise apartment buildings located right across the street from Central Park, you could see the impressive skyline of the city in the foreground. The twinkling lights of the municipality had been in direct competition with the celestial bodies that comprised the night sky, but no constellation could outshine the brilliance of the neon lights of Times Square. The city was abuzz with activity and life, but you could have cared less.

The municipality's beauty, majesty and mystery were all encompassing infusing its residences with the excitement and promise of what the night would bring. The sights and sounds of this great metropolis had captivated and enthralled all that fell under its enchanting spell, but it was all lost on a creature such as you. To you the bustling metropolitan landscape was nothing more than lines of code, the prison bars of your gilded cage closing in all around you. God how you longed to be free of this virtual incarceration liberated of your duties so that you could pursue other endeavors.

With dark brooding thoughts swirling around in your head you didn't even notice that a few minutes later you had found yourself pushing your vehicle through the busy traffic of Midtown. Then before long you had driven on Chinatown's Canal Street where you observed throngs of people trying to make their purchases of vegetables and other goods in the busy and crowded marketplace. Seeing so many humans brushing up against each other trying to move around on the overcrowded sidewalks, made you shiver with revulsion. The sight of them had reminded you of a thriving bee hive or ant hill. They seemed like brainless little insects blissfully unaware that they were all collectively working to sustain a higher power. Only one thought had come to mind, God, how I loathe them.

With a scowl on your face, your hands had tighten around the steering wheel as you had sharply turned a corner so the car could go in a northwestwardly direction. Soon the neighborhood had gradually started to transform from the bright lights of Mega City to the shadowy depths of the ghetto. Gone were the skyscrapers and neon signs, now all you see are the tired old tenements of the slums that house the less fortunate of the city.

The streets had been strewn with stinking garbage; the smell of it had made you incredibly nauseous. The scrawl of graffiti covered almost every wall, and open surface. However its secret messages had not been lost on you. While most people dismiss graffiti as nothing more than some punk's way of defacing public property, you knew that it was a form of communication within the rebel and exiled communities. It is the code within the code that tries to reach out to anyone that is willing to see the true meaning behind the spray painted symbols.

As you had looked around the inhospitable surroundings, you tried to pretend that you didn't know why you had ended up in such an unsavory neighborhood. Your subconscious, however knew the reason. You had to see _her_, and more than you had cared to admit, she was the only one that could help you now.

Finally you had arrived in front of the Delphi West housing project. Bringing your automobile to a grinding to a halt, you had put the transmission in the "Park" position then cautiously got out of the car.

You had immediately taken notice that there had been three young hoodlums standing in front of the building. The ethnicity of the group was representative of the racial make up of the neighborhood. The young man in the center was of Hispanic persuasion perhaps Puerto Rican or Dominican. The man to his right was an extremely tall and well built African American, the ruffian to his left was of Asian descent. To the untrained eye, they appeared to be nothing more than drug dealing roughnecks, but you had recognized them for what they really were. They were the Oracle's watchdogs, the gatekeepers that guard the entrance to the clairvoyant's domain.

"Well, look who's here," said the thin wiry Latino man standing in the middle of his compatriots. Looking at you with hate filled eyes he had loudly addressed you, "Whatcha want here, Whitey? Looks to me like you're lost."

Jerking his thumb eastwardly, he had snidely said, "Park Avenue's that way, and you're a long ways away from Park Avenue."

"Listen Cerberus, I didn't come here for a fight. I only wish to speak to the Oracle," you had stated quietly, wanting to remain calm. You couldn't afford to get into an altercation at this juncture because it would have brought unwanted attention from the Source.

Your prescence in Harlem had been highly irregular to start with, not that agents were a rare sight in this part of town, but you were the head of the agency. It was well known amongst the program community that Agent Smith avoided the ghetto at all costs. These people, this place had always been beneath someone of your stature. You had firmly believed that you were better than these castaways of society, superior to these exiles in everyway, but now due to your actions you were forced to seek out the help of their leader, the Oracle.

"Look here, snowflake; I don't give a shit who you came to see. You're not going to get past us. Me and my _dawgs _will make sure of that!" Cerberus had spat at you. With that the menacing trio had all reached into their respective coats' pockets each drawing out their 9mm semiautomatic pistols and then aimed them right at you.

Instinct had told you to remain as you were, not to make any sudden movements.

"Cerberus, tell your _homeboys_ to put away their weapons. If they do, I might decide to let them live," you had causally informed him.

Cerberus had scoffed then said to his friends, "Did you hear that, _dawgs_? Agent Smith is going to let us live."

The other two men had started laughing, as if what Cerberus had said had been extremely hilarious. Soon he had joined his companions, chuckling uncontrollably his wide mouth revealing a shiny row of gold encrusted teeth. Then quite abruptly, Cerberus had ceased his guffawing and had swiftly placed the barrel of his gun on the dead center of your forehead.

"You're no position to decide who lives or who dies, agent! You motherfuckers think you can come down here and try to tell us what to do! Well guess what _Casper_, I'm gonna bust a cap in your lily white ass right now!"

You had sighed with exasperation, tired of this silly game the exile had been playing with you. Without too much of a fuss you had brought your right hand up and encircled your long nimble fingers around Cerberus' wrist. He had tried to pull the trigger of his gun but you had quickly applied the right amount of pressure shattering every bone in his wrist. With an anguish yelp, the exile had dropped his weapon as if were a hot burning object onto the sidewalk below.

Then with one graceful fluid motion, you had swiftly and savagely twisted Cerberus' arm behind his back with the very hand that had broken his wrist, while the other had slipped into your jacket and drawn out your formidable Desert Eagle training the gun on the two gangsters.

Smirking triumphantly you had then spoken to the other two exiles in attendance, "Now, if you don't want to see me break every bone your _homie's_ body, you'll drop your guns."

When the two street thugs had refused to comply with your request, you had viciously tightened your grip on Cerberus' already fractured wrist and hiked his arm up his back.

Crying out in pain, he had begged his friends to do as you had asked. Hesitantly the hoodlums had laid down their weapons on the ground at your feet.

"Good, now step away from the door," you had commanded motioning with your gun in which direction you had wanted them to move. With Cerberus in tow, you started to cautiously walk up the concrete steps backwards. You had been careful not to turn your back on these men for even a second, knowing all too well that they would have seized the opportunity to pick up their discarded weapons and try to riddle you with bullets. Not that it would have done them any good, since you would have been able to avoid or even deflect their attempt to kill you. You just couldn't afford any undue attention. You had been trying to keep a low profile until you could get some answers from the great and all powerful Oracle.

Once you had reached the top of the steps, you had pressed the intercom button that buzzed into her apartment. The familiar voice of Seraph, another guardian of the Oracle had acknowledged your request for entry into the building and had buzzed you in. As you had opened the heavy metal door, you had shoved Cerberus down the steps like a bag of trash. As he landed at the bottom in a pathetic heap of skin, bones and ridiculously oversized clothes, you had kept your Desert Eagle aimed at the two other hoodlums.

"I'll be back soon," you had announced, and then you had pointed to your sleek Audi and warned, "My car had better be in the same condition that I'm leaving it in, or I'll rain down a shit storm on you and your _peeps_. Do you feel me _dawgs_?"

The surprised looks on the gangsters faces was evident at your knowledge of the street language they speak to address each other. The largest man of the group, who had somewhat resembled basketball star Shaquile O'Neal, had knelt down on the sidewalk to tend to his injured leader. With hard coal like eyes he had stared you down before replying, "Yeah, _dawg_, I feel you."

Without another word, you had crossed the threshold, slamming the door behind you.

IIIIII

"Hello, son. I wish I could say that I'm surprised to see you, but I'm not," says the elderly African American woman seated at her own kitchen table leisurely lighting a Salem menthol cigarette then you watch her take a long drag off it.

She blows out a puff of smoke in your direction then smiles warmly before she says, "Why don't you sit down, take a load off?"

"No thank you, I prefer to stand," you say, firmly declining her invitation.

"Suit yourself, but I know you'll want to once you hear what I have to say."

You press your lips tightly together knowing full well that your mother's words meant you'd better take heed and plant your posterior in a chair.

Slowly you walk over to the small kitchen table and take the seat opposite of the program known as the Oracle.

Through the hazy smoke you can see her glittering dark eyes looking out at you. The corners of her mouth curled up in a knowing smile as if she were on the verge of revealing a secret truth that was meant only for you.

"Alright Mom, I guess you know why I'm here, don't you?"

She lets out a little laugh then replies, "Of course I do, I wouldn't be much of an Oracle if I didn't".

Then the good-humored expression on her weathered face changes to one full of grim concern, "Son you must realize that your actions have caused a bit of a rift between you and your father to say the least."

"So he knows about what I've done?" you ask, surprised that the Architect, your father and creator, is already aware of your dissention.

The Oracle nods in affirmation then replies solemnly, "Yes, baby I'm afraid he does. You have your fellow agents Jones and Brown to thank for that."

Grimacing with disappointment you say, "I should have known those two would go blabbing to Dad the first chance they got."

"I can't say that I blame them," your mother scoffs, then she says, "They were suspicious all along about your reasons why Isis should be captured in the first place. The entire interrogation was quite perplexing to them if truth be told. You know that your brothers are single minded and slaves to proper protocol. Your insistence to take what they thought was Isis' body to the agency incinerator was not only unorthodox but against standard operating procedure. The disposal of dead rebels is usually a task left to the likes of your underlings, not the head of agency."

_Damn, how could I have been so stupid, _you ask yourself.

You sigh heavily as your mother continues reconstructing the events of the last thirty-six hours, filling in the blanks to give you a different perspective on what had happened, "Did you know that Jones had inspected the crematorium after you left and found no ashes of any kind? It didn't take him long to put two and two together. What where you thinking? You can only fool a sentient program for so long, you of all people should know that!"

Your mouth opens as you try to come up with a response, but you know that nothing you could possibly say could explain away the mess you had created. Instead you just sit there pathetically, mournfully looking at your mother through your dark sunglasses.

"Don't give those sad puppy dog eyes, I can still them through your oh-so-cool shades!" she snaps at you. Then much to your surprise she reaches over and swiftly removes your eyewear.

"How many times have I told you not to wear those things in my house? You and your brothers have such lovely eyes. I will never understand why you insist on cover them up!"

Sheepishly you smile at the Oracle as you offer a stiff apology for your disrespect, "I'm sorry Mom."

"Apology accepted. Now let's get down to business and the reason you've come to see me. You've created quite a stir not only amongst the programs but Councilor West himself of the Zion Council is all up in arms about what's happened to his operative. Naturally he has ordered the only surviving crew member of the _Luxor_ to pull the plug and end Isis' ordeal."

Giving your mother a small triumphant smirk you counter, "Yes, I am aware of Anubis' orders, but I have already anticipated as much so I decided to take some pre-emptive measures of my own to assure Esmeralda's continued survival."

As the Oracle stamps out her cigarette in her ashtray she looks at you with cold dark eyes then says, "Let me guess, you've ordered your precious Sentinels to keep their tentacles trained on the _Luxor_ and you've probably contacted the ship's operator to let him know as much. So let me see if I've got this right? As long Anubis doesn't pull Isis' plug, then your Sentinels won't attack his ship, is that a correct assessment?

Your overconfident smile soon fades as you listen to your mother's dead on accurate account of what had occurred.

"As usual mother, your perception is uncanny. Yes, it's true. I did contact Isis's ship and put its operator on notice. If he even thinks of touching one hair on her head, I'll have the Sentinels crush the hull of the ship like a tin can."

"And Esmeralda right along with it, or perhaps you didn't think of that possibility?" your mother says quietly.

"I-I hadn't really thought about that. Besides, what does it matter? As long as Anubis does as he's told, I'll figure out how to get Isis's body out of that ship before the Sentinels destroy it."

By this time the Oracle has reached into her well worn apron and retrieved her pack of smokes. As she is about to pull out another cigarette, she looks at you and says, "Tell me something, son. Why are you going through all of this trouble for a rebel? Surely if she knew anything about Zion's mainframe, you could have retrieved the information you needed and gone on with your duties without upsetting your father."

"I haven't been successful in extracting the data," you say abruptly, "I needed more time than the Source had given me."

"So, you risk your position, your very life for _information_? I don't believe you. Agents have never really made very good liars; it's not in your programming."

"I don't care what you believe," you snap at your mother, and then you ask brusquely, "Have you talked to Father, what has _he _to say?"

With a dry laugh, she responds, "You know your father, always worried about the balance of things. Everything must be in its proper order; any disturbance within the system could spell chaos and he cannot allow that. Especially when one of his agents starts to exhibit behavior that is outside of the norm, it raises concerns, more so when it's the lead agent."

You respond defensively, "I am only acting on a lead provided to me by an informant. I was made to believe that this rebel had once been close to Morpheus. Surely Father can see, as I have, the implications and significance of holding this operative captive! She could be the key to crushing the rebels and bringing an end to the war once and for all!"

"Who are you trying to convince with that load of crap, me or yourself? I'm your mother, remember? You haven't fooled anyone with this bullshit story, least of all me! You know perfectly well that this whole thing was never about the war, Zion or even Morpheus!"

"Shut up, Mother! You don't know what you're talking about!" you warn in a dangerous tone.

"Don't I? Then why are you here, hmmm? Why did you lower yourself to come to see a doddering old fool that doesn't know anything?"

Out of anger you refuse to answer her. You know that she is goading you, prodding you to reveal something that is not ready to be disclosed, least of all to her.

Undaunted, she continues to berate you by stating, "I'll tell you why! You've come to me because you have nowhere else to go. I am also the only one that is able to help you understand what you've been feeling these last few months. Smith, I know that you are conflicted, that you are struggling with yourself to comprehend what is happening to you."

Sneering at her you ask mockingly, "And what _is _happening to me?"

"You are falling in love," the Oracle answers simply.

"W-what did you say?" you stammer, not wanting to believe in the words just uttered by your mother. Immediately you feel shame and regret. Stuttering is such a human characteristic. It is a trait that demonstrates weakness, lack of confidence. Those were two things that you cannot be without. Not now, not when there's so much at stake.

"Son, what you are experiencing is perfectly natural. I just didn't expect it would be with a human."

"That's not possible! You're lying! I cannot fall in love, I'm not programmed for --,"

Your mother finishes for you, "--emotions? Honey you forget that I am your co-creator. I had a hand in designing your programming. I was also there at your commissioning, your 'birth' so to speak. I knew from the very beginning that you were different, special. Something about you stood out from the rest, even way back then."

The Oracle pauses for a bit then surprisingly she gently lays her warm soft hand on yours. She smiles at you when she notices you didn't bother to withdraw from her touch.

Sighing heavily she continues, "When you excelled in every aspect of your training and surpassed all of the other agents in your studies, including Agent White, I swelled with pride. I even told your father that you were meant for greater things, but of course that man would never listen to me. He was hell bent on grooming you for agent hood, and there was nothing I could do to stop it from happening.

However, as your mother, I wanted something more for my child than just a bland life of duty, and killing for the Source. I wanted you to have an appreciation of the other aspects of life so that you could become a well rounded program, and not just a killing machine. So unbeknownst to your father I had developed a chip, an emotional processor that would allow you to experience a full range of emotions including love. I considered it the most precious gift a mother could bestow on her child."

"And for this I should be grateful? You should have left my programming intact, I would have been better off," you say to her disdainfully.

"Better off, you say? As what, a perfunctory automaton that commits nameless atrocities against humanity and AI alike every time your father crooks his finger? You've always lived with the knowledge that I had installed unauthorized hardware in your central processing unit. I made no efforts to hide that fact from you," the Oracle gently reminds you.

"Yes, but sometimes I wish that I didn't have this 'thing' inside of me," you say reproachfully. Your free hand clutches at the part of your chest, where a beating heart should be, if you were human. It was in this area that your misguided mother had installed the foreign mechanism that was now the cause of all of your current woes.

Pulling your hand away from hers, you scowl at her and ask, "Do you know how hard it is for me to repress these feelings, these emotions from my agents?"

The Oracle just looks at you blankly and says nothing, explains nothing leaving you to wallow in self pity, another emotion you can do without. Her silence infuriates you causing you to unexpectedly stand on your feet and slam your powerful fists on the laminate surface of the kitchen table. The force of the impact sends the ashtray and its sooty contents crashing onto the cracked linoleum floor below. Still the Oracle remains silent as if she is waiting for the wake of your fury to subside.

Very carefully, with your unclenched fists still touching the surface of the table, you lean over it and say in a harsh whisper, "It takes every ounce of energy I have to create the illusion that I feel _nothing_, that I am like the rest of them! I don't want to be different, I never asked for this 'gift'!"

After a long pause the Oracle looks up at you says, "You know you can't keep her."

"Keep who? What are you talking about?"

"You know who, don't play dumb with me, Son. You maybe many things, but dumb isn't one of them."

"Fine," you say through clenched teeth unable to contain your anger, "You are talking about Esmeralda, right?"

With a broad smile, your mother replies, "Bingo!"

_What does Mother know about Esmeralda, _you think worriedly. With your interest now rekindled you slowly return to your seat ready to listen to what the Oracle has to say.

"Son I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you and Esmeralda are in mortal danger. Your father has ordered your own agents to scour the city and find you. When they do, they are to bring you before him to answer for your treachery against the system."

The coolant that runs through your system suddenly drops a few degrees in temperature upon hearing the Oracle's words of foreboding. You can feel the icy liquid flow through your circuitry causing your body to tremble with slight trepidation. What you are experiencing is an AI's equivalent of the human term "blood running cold".

You knew that if you were caught you were facing certain erasure at the hands of the Source, not that it will ever happen. You are the most cunning and lethal agent of them all. You've trained legions and yet no one has ever bested you in all of your long years of dedicated service. You would be able to stay safe for years, blend in with the exiles if necessary. You know all of the best hiding places and not even dear old Dad could penetrate the firewalls you could put up with just a snap of your fingers.

The Sentinels are also yours to control. It was foolish of your father to grant you totally autonomy over them, for now not even the Creator of all things can control them. They will only listen to you and the Architect knows this. If it were your wish, with your army of _squiddies,_ a rebel term you despise, you could eviscerate Zion and bring the Source to its knees. However domination and conquest of this planet does not appeal to you. After destroying the last bastion of humanity, why would you want to lord over this artificial world, this prison? It would only make you a zookeeper in this disgusting menagerie.

You've never wanted to be a part of your father's creation in the first place. The very idea that you are forced to exist within the Matrix has almost driven you to the brink of insanity and yet—now that Esmeralda has entered your life her presence has somehow lessened your hatred of humans and the simulated reality they inhabit. She's made it more tolerable, the world now seems a better place simply because she's in it.

_Damn, Mother is right, I do care for her_, your mind admits.

Quite suddenly a sense of panic washes over your body like a savage torrential downpour as your mind formulates one alarming thought, _what will the Mainframe do to Esmeralda?_

Even though you battle against it, dread starts to grip you once more within its unyielding grasp.

It forces you to ask fearfully, "Mother, what will happen to Isis?"

The Oracle takes another long pause, retrieves a long wooden kitchen match from out of her apron pocket then runs it along the side the table. You see a small flame ignite from the contact which she leisurely brings up to the cigarette now firmly held between her lips. After lighting the cigarette, she waves the match in the air to extinguish it. Then she carefully places the cylindrical roll full of toxic tobacco between her index and middle fingers to steady it as she takes a long deep drag to fill her lungs with smoke.

Her lackadaisical attitude about this whole affair infuriates you. How dare she just sit there and smoke her cancer sticks when the very future of your existence hangs in the balance? Worse yet, just as you discover that your feelings for the rebel you are holding captive are more that just a fleeting fascination, you may find out that you are in danger of losing her!

"Goddamn you Mom! Why is it always riddles and puzzles with you? Just tell me straight out what I want to know or else--"you say desperately. The tone in your voice has grown urgent yet menacing.

Just then your mother rises from her seat and quick as a flash, she backhands you with her free hand, hard.

With a fury you have never seen before brewing in her eyes she shouts at you, "Or else what, boy? Don't you dare use that tone with me and let me not ever hear you take the Lord's name in vain again. Is that clear?"

Rubbing your hand on your now red cheek you say, "Crystal clear, Mother."

The sound of running footsteps tear your eyes away from the Oracle's angry face as you train them on the entrance to the kitchen. Shortly after, Seraph appears in the doorway, a look of strained concern posses his delicate Asian features.

"Oracle," he begins to say, as he casts a hate filled glance in your direction. Turning his eyes back on your mother he asks, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine Seraph," she answers her chief guardian and protector. Then as she gives you a look that would melt the motherboard of even the most powerful machine, she says, "Your brother just forgot his manners. That's all."

Nodding curtly, Seraph shoots one more glance your way before quietly retreating from the kitchen. The look in his almond shaped eyes holds a wealth of information and his message is clear, "Don't fuck with me."

"Mother," you begin to say the moment Seraph is out of your field of vision, but the Oracle shushes you by placing one of her arthritis ridden fingers on your lips.

"Smith, for once just shut up and listen, okay?" she says softly.

Slowly you nod your head as your mother removes her finger from your mouth. With your blue eyes now riveted on her dark winkled face, you are ready to listen to the wisdom the Oracle was about to impart to you.

"Son you know better than anyone how I hate giving bad news, I really do. However, not even my favorite child can be spared from the decision of the Fates."

You close your eyes at this point, as if this simple action would shield you from the inevitable, but you know what's coming even before it's said.

"One of us is going to die," you blurt out in a hollow tone, scarcely recognizing the sound of your own voice. It sounds so alien to you, as if it were emanating from a stranger.

With her voice breaking from sadness, the Oracle responds with a simple, "Yes."

Your eyes fly open. With anguish constricting your throat you ask huskily, "Which one will it be, Esmeralda or me?"

"You already know the answer to your own question, Smith."

"No! I refuse to give in! Surely something can be done. I can appeal to Father, make him understand what happened. I did not betray him, you know that!" you shout defiantly, desperation clinging to every word.

You now see that tears have formed in your mother's eyes. _Tears?_ _The old girl hasn't missed a trick has she, _you think cynically, as you begrudgingly admire the Oracle's attention to detail._ Her programming is almost flawless in its design._

Sobbingly your mother says, "Son, I've already tried to explain to your father the reason for your odd behavior. I wanted to take to brunt of the blame upon myself, but again he refused to listen. He thinks that I'm lying to protect you."

Tearing your eyes away from your weeping mother, a sense of hopelessness is starting to germinate within you. However your fortitude to beat the odds outweighs any feelings of despair.

Straightening your posture, as your hands grip the lapels of your suit jacket, then straightening out your tie you state, "Mother I know that I can survive by staying one step ahead of the system".

"What about Esmeralda? She was also in danger and lacking the skills and abilities of an agent she would surely perish if she were to remain in the Matrix any longer. There is no other choice. Esmeralda _has_ to return to Zion."

"Return to what, Mom? I will not have her live out her days ferreting out a pitiful existence with those sewer rats that call themselves rebels! I will make sure that she is kept safe from the system," you say with newfound determination.

"Are listening to what you are saying? Have you heard yourself? Esmeralda is not a toy or a pet that you can just pick up and play with then shove in a corner when you've tired of her. She is a human being and as such is entitled to make up her own mind about what she wants."

Offended by your mother's assumption that your feelings for Esmeralda are not genuine, without thinking, you reveal your deepest secret with three little words, "I love her."

_Oh God, did I actually say it_, you ask yourself disbelievingly. You didn't mean for your true sentiments to spill out of you, but now that the words have been said, you realize that there is no going back. W_ell I'll be damned, I do love her!_

"Oh, baby, I know and that is why it pains me to tell you that she has to go back. I know that you are able to hold your own against what your father might throw at you, but you cannot possibly be with Isis every single minute. You would constantly be on your guard, looking over your shoulders. Not to mention that the agents would not be the only ones trying to apprehend you."

Suddenly you understand, as it all becomes perfectly clear to you. The rebel faction will be sending operatives into the Matrix to try and retrieve their fellow comrade.

"Alright, Mom, I've heard enough. I know what I have to do, "you say as you turn on your heel to walk out of your mother's kitchen, putting your shades back on as you do so.

_Strange_, you think to yourself, _she didn't make me any cookies_. _Not that it matters, I've never had the heart to tell her that I think they are terrible. She always uses too much nutmeg._

"Smith," your mother calls out managing to briefly halt your retreat.

"Yes, Mother, what is it now?" you ask, not bothering to turn around to face her.

"I know that you are relying on the Frenchman for help. I just wanted to remind you that his loyalty always goes to the highest bidder. The Source has deep pockets, remember that, Son."

"I'll take that into consideration. Answer me this Mom. Thanks you your little processor, I am now experiencing romantic love, will it remain unrequited?" you dare to ask, hopeful that her response will be a favorable one. Still you refuse to turn around to face her.

"No, it won't. Esmeralda _will_ grow to love you but it will lead to her downfall," the Oracle says ominously.

Your eyes decide to rest on the wooden plaque just above the kitchen exit. "Know Thyself" it reads in ancient Latin. Yes, you know yourself well enough to recognize that whatever your father has in store, you will be ready to retaliate. If it's a war he wants, then a war he shall have. As for the rebels, you will deal with them in your own sweet time.

There is much to do and very little time to prepare. However a plot of sheer genius is starting to take root in your mind. It is a plan so devious, so ruthless that you even amaze yourself for possessing the cunningness to have thought of it.

First you will have to contact your informant in Zion and find out what the rebel's strategy will be. Next you will need to find a new safe house that will both serve as your new base of operations, and will be comfortable of enough to allow Esmeralda to heal from her sustained injuries.

Mother is right about the Merovingian. He cannot be trusted and the longer you stay in his hotel, the greater the risk will be that he will divulge your whereabouts to the Source for the right price.

Wanting to waste no more of your precious time, you try to make a hasty exit from the Oracle's kitchen but not before you tell her, "Goodbye, Mom."

As you cross the threshold you hear her say sorrowfully, "Goodbye, my son."

End Chapter Four


	5. Fugitives of the System

**Prisoner of War**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Matrix, the Matrix owns me.

**Summary:** Well it's been awhile since the last update, and for that, dear readers I apologize. I've been collaborating on another story with fellow author Akenaten. But fear not, I have taken the time to write another installment.

When we last left our anti-hero, Agent Smith had just visited with his mother the Oracle and as result received some very disconcerting news about the possible fate of Esmeralda. Because of this he has declared war against his father, the Architect and the system itself to protect the rebel he has grown to love. Now he has become the very thing that he swore to hunt down, a fugitive, a rebel within the system. Will Smith prevail or will the Source have the last laugh? Read on to find out…

**Author's Note: **Thank you to all of my loyal readers for your kind words of encouragement! You guys are the best! Especially you Linda, words cannot begin to express the gratitude I feel for your continued support and friendship!

This chapter is written in second person format from Esmeralda's POV.

**Chapter Five**

**Fugitives of the System**

"Let me go! Stop hurting me, you goddamned machine!" you yell out into the immeasurable darkness of the night. The sound of your voice gets lost in the howling ferocious wind thrashing all around you. The sunless sky above has now turned blood red as violent streaks of lightening slice through the thickness of the clouds leaving gaping wounds in the heavens. You pray for the inevitable promise of rain to fall and pelt your broken body with its celestial tears of wretchedness. God however denies you His mercy, turning a blind eye away from this hollow lifeless world. It is an arid wasteland reeking of death, echoing the abysmal misery you feel inside. With each cruel thrust from the cyborg, another piece of your humanity falls away and dies. The thing above you, inside you continues its assault of your body, deaf to your cries for clemency. As you look into its terrible eyes, you come to the horrific realization that it is relentless, purposeful and driven to destroy you.

Somewhere inside your ravaged mind, lies the knowledge that the horror you are experiencing is merely a dream, it has to be, and yet…

…why does it feel so real?

"_Your mind makes it real;" _a woman's voice tells you. Despite the woeful moans of the wind you hear her voice as clear as a bell.

"No, it's just a dream!" you exclaim.

"_Life is but a dream, Esmeralda,"_the voice whispers softly into your ear.It sounds eerily familiar.

"It's a dream, just a dream. Oh God, somebody wake me up! Make it stop!" you beg desperately.

"_Esmeralda, listen to me! You must get back to Zion at all costs!" _the woman says urgently.

Suddenly the clarity of recognition strikes you like a bolt of lightening prompting you to ask, "Oracle, is that you?"

"_Remember child, no matter what Smith tells you, you must get out of the Matrix! Both of your lives depend upon it!"_ she replies with an insistent tone.

Bewildered by her cryptic message you inquire, "I don't understand! What is going on?"

Ignoring your question, the Oracle simply states, "O_n the count of three you'll wake up. Ready?_"

"_One."_

"No wait! I need to know about Smith!" you cry out.

"_Two."_

Pleading with her, you shout, "Oracle! Please help me!"

"_Three!"_

llllll

You awaken with a primal scream, the sound pierces through the dead silence of the empty hotel room. Despite the cool ambient temperature created by the central air-conditioning system, sweat drips off your body, saturating the bedding you are laying upon. Your heart beats rapidly within your chest with chaotic percussion. The palpitations from the pumping organ are so powerful, you're afraid it will rip through the cavity that houses it. Clutching the bed sheets within your hands, your eyes frantically dart about the room as your vision adjusts to the lack of natural light. You soon realize that it is now night and that your nightmare is over.

_How long have I been asleep_, you wonder. Carefully you try to sit upright but the sharp pain from your head wound impedes your efforts. Again you make the attempt to sit up and this time you succeed. Despite the aches and pains that tear at your body, you manage to swing your legs over the side of the bed.

Placing a tentative foot upon the floor, it makes contact with the plush Persian rug lying next to the four poster bed. The floor covering feels warm underneath the sole of your foot, offering you the perfect amount of padding in the event you should take a nasty tumble. After a moment's hesitation you place your other foot on the rug, bracing your hands on the edge of the mattress. Ever so slowly, you stand.

Feeling a bit woozy you wait until the lightheadedness subsides before taking your first step. Cautiously you venture forth, placing one foot in front of the other with your arms extended away from your body in an effort to keep your balance. The room is dark and despite your best efforts to fine-tune your vision, you can scarcely see anything at all. You cast your mournful eyes towards the barely visible bathroom door, which it is only a few feet in front of you, but it seems like miles away.

"I can make it, I have to," you tell yourself, steeling your resolve.

Desperation and pain fuel the overwhelming desire to get your hands on the Demerol hidden away in the medicine chest and quell your agony. So you quicken your lumbering steps, however, you soon discover, that it is a near fatal mistake. Equilibrium or lack thereof, betrays your sense of balance causing you to trip over your own feet. You fall face first into the thick hand-woven material with a muffled thud.

"Shit, shit, shit!" you growl with frustrated anguish. You try once more to peel yourself off the floor but the weight of your own body prevents you from doing so. Then suddenly the unmistakable sound of the hotel suite door opening forces you to cease from flailing about on the floor like a dying mackerel. A few moments later, the harsh illumination from the hallway chandelier cuts into the room temporarily blinding your eyes.

Panic ensues when you hear a deliberate methodical baritone call out to you, "Esmeralda, I'm back."

You can't run hell you can't even crawl away, so you lie there in wait. _God what I wouldn't give to have my trusty Remington right now_, you think regretfully, wishing that you possessed your firearm for protection. But alas you are helpless, defenseless against the darkly clad figure that is fast approaching you.

"Esmeralda!" Agent Smith exclaims, obviously surprised that you are out of bed.

"Get away from me you monster!" you snarl up at him as you try to lift your torso off the floor.

Ignoring what you've just said, Smith lowers himself to sit back on his haunches. Gently he places his hand on your face as his riveting blues eyes, heavy with concern, look upon you. Recoiling from his touch, you hock back a loogie then propel it into his face. Fear grips you when you see a flash of anger in his eyes, but instead of lashing out at you for soiling him with saliva and mucus, Agent Smith merely retrieves a handkerchief from his jacket and proceeds to wipe himself clean.

Afterwards, he tosses the soiled cloth aside then reaches out to scoop you up effortlessly into his powerful arms. Lifting himself into an upright position, he takes you with him. Furious that he has dared to touch you, you begin to pummel him with pitiable little blows about the shoulders and face. Again he ignores your feeble efforts to defend yourself.

"Leave me alone! Can't you just leave me alone?" you howl like a wounded animal.

Smith offers no reply or explanation for his actions as he continues to cradle you in his arms. He just stares at you with those eyes, those hauntingly beautiful eyes that just moments ago were soulless pits of hell.

_But that was in your dream, Isis_, you remind yourself. Progressively the blows become weaker and weaker, your strength fleeting. Soon you tire as you limply submit to his strength.

Silently and with the stoic reverence of a monk, he carries you into the bathroom, stopping briefly to flip the light switch that is to his right. Immediately the room is filled with the soft glow of the overhead lighting, and yet you shield your eyes from the light with your hand.

Finally he speaks his voice grimly firm, "Esmeralda, we need to leave. I will help you get ready, but you must not fight me. Time is against us so we must hurry."

"What are you saying? Why do we have to leave?" you ask angrily. You can't help but notice that he has kept his rugged face in profile refusing to look at you directly.

"Agents are coming and when they get here I don't know what they'll do, but it will most certainly not be pleasant." Still he looks straight ahead. This annoys you immensely so you grab his chin in your hand and sharply turn his head to face you.

Drilling your hazel eyes into his you say, "I don't get it! You're the head agent, you're their leader! Why would the machines turn on one of their own?"

Smith looks at you as he contemplates what his response will be. His uneasy hesitation fascinates you, because he seems so lost, so vulnerable, so human. Still you wait for him to say something, anything that could explain away all that has happened to you.

Then suddenly comes his unsettling reply, "I have decided to not to be an agent of the system any longer."

What he's just said sounds so incredibly ridiculous that you almost see the humor in it.

"So you've decided to retire and they are going to kill you for it? Some send-off Agent Smith," you sardonically tell him.

Sarcasm unfortunately is lost on this sentient program, only managing to anger him. You are startled when you feel him tighten his grip on you.

"Esmeralda, I don't have the patience for your trivial human absurdity! Don't you understand? I've turned my back on the system, renounced everything that I am to wage war against the one that gave me life!"

"Why?" you shout into his face as your anger reaches its boiling point.

"I had to! That is all you need to know right now!" Smith yells back, he too has reached the limits of his patience.

His answer is unsatisfactory and you let him know it, "Why would you do such a thing? Tell me, I have to know!"

Smith's fury erupts with a volcanic force; you can see it in his burning eyes. Clutching you viciously against his hard body he hisses between clenched teeth, "Because of you, Esmeralda, I did all this because of you!"

The gravity of his words makes you tremble, as the warm salty moisture of a lone tear rolls down your cheek.

_Because of you, Esmeralda!_

"Smith…," you begin to say.

But Smith cuts you off as he roars, "Save it, I don't want your pity! Now you listen to me! We have run out of options for the moment, we have to go, _now_!"

_Because of you, he gave up all that he is,_ says the little voice in your head

"I don't believe you and I'm not going anywhere except back to Zion!" you say with quiet defiance.

_Because of you, he has taken lives. Ramses, Ptolemy and Ra all died, murdered by Smith. They were murdered, so that he can get to you. Yes, he is a cold blooded killer, but there's another side to him. You've seen it, and there's no denying it._

"If you don't do what I say right now, you will not live to see your precious Zion again!" Agent Smith says with unyielding conviction.

_Because of you he will take many more lives to keep you safe. Why would he go through so much trouble, why would he risk everything for this one chance to have you? Could it be that he does feel something? No, it's not possible. Smith is not a man, he's not real and yet why do you feel so safe in his arms? You are comforted by the warmth radiating from his body, as his scent intoxicates and sooths you all at once._

But my dream! In my dream Smith was exposed for what he really is – a machine, cold, calculating and inhuman! He was a monster!

_Forget the dream kid! Look at him! Does he look like a monster? I didn't think so! So guess what girl? Yes, you figured it out, it's time to fish or cut bait! It's time to make your choice. _

In your minds eye you see yourself at a crossroads, and there are two very different paths. One is the road that leads back to Zion, the other goes down a path towards an ambiguous destiny. You are plagued with the certainty that no matter which one you choose it will change your life forever.

_It's all comes down to choice_, the Oracle once said to you, not knowing then how those words would come back to haunt you now.

However you've already made your decision, actually it was pretty easy considering the circumstances surrounding it. Somehow part of you knows that it was all going to go down this way, you have always known. There's no going back now, as you place yourself at the threshold of the unknown, the point of no return.

Looking into Smith's pain filled eyes you take in a deep breath and say, "I won't fight you. For now I'll go willingly."

Smith's eyes widen in complete surprise as you notice a slight smile play on his lips. However the smile is soon replaced by scowl when he hears you sternly say, "But when we get to wherever it is we're going you will promise to tell me everything or I swear to God I will run to the first exit I can find!"

At first he says nothing so you drive your point home, "I mean it Smith, if you don't tell me everything, I'm gone! Now promise me!"

He remains silent for a few moments then mumbles almost incoherently, "I promise."

lllll

Thanks to Agent Smith you are now refreshed and ready to leave. With the greatest of care, he not only bathed you, he had also redressed your wound and administered the pain killer with the expertise of a field medic. Once or twice you had dared to sneak a peek at him as his well manicured hands had washed your body only to be ensnared in his hungry gaze. However in spite of the obvious lust in his azure eyes, he had made no sexual overtures. Smith, much to your chagrin, had been the consummate gentleman.

Even in your injured state, you still had appreciated his tender touch especially when his long fingers had brushed lightly over your breasts. Smith had pretended not to notice when your nipples became taut and erect, but you still had seen the desire etched on his face, however brief it was.

When the bath had ended, he had cautiously lifted you out of the claw-foot tub then dried you off with a thick soft towel. Smith had been meticulous yet gentle, not missing a single inch of your skin. Wrapping a clean warm towel around you, he had then applied a fresh dressing on your wound as you sat on the closed lid of the commode.

Afterward Smith had led you back into the main part of the suite then turned his back so that you could dress yourself in the new clothes that had been laid out on the bed. You were amazed that the simple outfit of faded denim jeans and white cotton blouse fit you perfectly. As you zipped up your black leather ankle high boots, you had suddenly noticed that the lights had been switched on, allowing you to fully take in the splendiferous grandeur of the room.

All you could do was gape like a wide eyed child at the trappings that were fit for no less than royalty. However, the crowing jewel in the lavishly elegant space had been the spectacular view of Mega City which could be seen through the enormous floor to ceiling windows. The cityscape, which dominated the night sky, had been absolutely breathtaking. Cautiously, you had walked over to the windows to get a better look.

lllll

Now as you stand back and stare at the shining beacon of the Matrix's glory you say to no one in particular, "It's beautiful."

"Not as beautiful as you," you hear Smith say causing you to whirl around. The agent is standing directly behind you. It is actually a good thing that he is because you are suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of dizziness. You fall forward right into the security of his waiting arms.

"Are you all right?" he asks you anxiously as his hand cups your cheek.

"Yes," you answer meekly. Suddenly you are acutely aware that his face is only hairsbreadth from yours. Sucking in a breath, you notice that he's inching in closer to you, closing the breach between you. As your heart quickens its pace, you can almost feel his warm moist lips on yours.

The anticipation builds as you are mesmerized by his hypnotic stare. You then close your eyes, pout your lips and wait for the delicious sensation of his mouth devouring yours passionately.

You soon discover however, that the kiss will have to wait as the two of you are abruptly interrupted by the explosive sound of the suite's door being kicked in. Your eyes fly open, but you are not given a chance to react when you feel Agent Smith push you down to the floor. Quickly you crawl behind a large potted palm tree to get out of harm's way.

"If you want to live, stay down there! I'll handle this!" he orders you. Smith then turns around to confront the two agents that are now standing inside the suite with their weapons drawn. From your vantage point behind the palm tree, you cannot discern their identities right away.

"Former Agent Smith," you hear one of them start to say. "You are under arrest for violation of Matrix Statute 39-18. If you come with us quietly then no harm will befall you or the rebel."

"Well, well Agent Jones, I'm impressed. You may have actually done some real detective work this time to find me. On the other hand, I'm all too familiar with your level of incompetence. The only way you could have learned of my whereabouts is if you had been tipped off by our mutual acquaintance, the Frenchman."

"Your arrogance won't save you this time, Smith," you hear a much younger male voice say. "You either leave with us now, peacefully or your rebel whore leaves in a body bag. Your choice, it really doesn't matter to me. Either way, you _will _face the Source!"

_So Smith wasn't lying_, you tell yourself, completely convinced now that he _is_ a wanted man and they've come to kill him and you.

At this point you are terrified but in spite of this, you dare to slowly peek out from behind the foliage to see what is going on. The scene being played out before you is something that you thought you'd never see: an agent standoff. For what seems like an infinite amount of time Smith and his former colleagues just stare at one another, like statuesque gunslingers of the Old West, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

Then you hear Smith scoff incredulously, "You can't possibly think that you can beat me."

Agent Jones replies, "We've trained under your tutelage, and as you well know Agent Brown and I were apt pupils. You taught us everything we needed to know about conflict and hand to hand combat and we learned our lessons well, too well. After having sparred with you hundreds of times we can predict your every maneuver and match you blow for blow. Face facts, Smith you can't win."

Your eyes widen as you see Smith reach up to grab the lapels of his suit jacket then twist his head to one side to give his neck bones a good resounding crack.

Then icily he declares, "Yes it's true I did teach you everything you know, but herein lies the problem: I didn't teach you everything that _I_ know!"

Then in a blur of aggressive movement Smith viciously advances on the larger of his two opponents to deliver a powerful punch directly into the center of Agent Jones' midsection. The force of the impact causes Jones to drop his Desert Eagle, his dark sunglasses fly off his face as he is propelled to the opposite side of the room embedding his body into the wall. Jones is momentarily stunned but as expected, he quickly removes himself from his plaster and drywall entombment leaving an agent shaped hole in the wall like a Warner Brothers cartoon.

All you can do is watch from the sidelines, captivated as you bear witness to this battle between two very powerful programs. If the gargantuan agent had been human, the impact from Smith's fist would have certainly damaged most of his vital organs, but since Jones is a machine, he doesn't even flinch. You gasp loudly as you observe Smith attack again, deploying a series of kicks and punches so rapid they appear almost invisible to the human naked eye.

However your heart sinks as you helplessly watch every one of Smith flawless maneuvers expertly blocked by his hulking ex-subordinate. During the struggle, furniture is smashed into worthless pieces of lumber. Lamps, crystal vases and the fire place poker all become lethal projectiles as they are hurtled through the air. It doesn't surprise you though when both agents manage to duck and dodge averting every object thatis being thrown at them. The remaining walls are pulverized as a result of the two agents slamming each other into them leaving pieces of plaster and a thick layer of white dust all over the room. Undaunted, Agent Smith continues his assault as he tries to bring the large agent down, but Jones proves to be a fearsome combatant, even when Smith lands a bone crushing kick on what appears to be the other agent's larynx.

Jones reaches down to grab Smith by the ankle and manages to twist it away from his throat. Then with a mighty grunt he thrusts out his large hand and wraps it tightly around Agent Smith's own neck. Lifting him off the ground, Jones begins to squeeze in an attempt to strangle the host body that houses Smith's essence. Horrified, you watch as Smith's body is starting to go into convulsions, twitching uncontrollably as he fights to stay alive struggling for air.

You are suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to help him, but how? How could you possibly save Smith when you are wounded?

_I've got to try something or I'll die too_, you tell yourself. Then that's when you see it, gleaming on the plush carpet like a mirage in the desert, Agent Jones' discarded weapon. If you can only reach it you might be able to get off a couple of rounds and manage to distract him long enough for him to ease his death grip on Smith. There's only one problem…where's the other agent?

Quickly enough you get your answer as the cold of hard steel of Agent Brown's weapon is being pushed into the back of your skull. Your head roars with pain, almost making you pass out from the discomfort. Next you feel Agent Brown's hot breath in your ear as he hisses, "Going somewhere, Miss Campos? I don't think you'll get very far."

You begin to tremble as you feel his free arm wrap itself around your waist then he swiftly pulls you to him, lockingyou into position with your back against his front. You struggle to get away, but you know that it is a vain attempt so you eventually give up.

"Agent Jones," you hear Brown say to his colleague, "turn Smith towards me. I want the last thing he sees to be the death of this rebel scum!" Jones promptly obliges the junior agent's request by whirling Smith around to face you and Brown. Judging from the bluish tint of Smith's face he will soon be forced to leave his host body and find another or he will cease to exist. Either way you would be left alone to face whatever fate has in store for you.

_Oh God, I can't go out like this, no not like this_, your mind frantically tells you. Sheer panic and the will to survive kicks into overdrive, instinct takes over as all coherent thought abandons you. With the last bit of your energy you tighten your hand into a small solid fist, then when Brown is least expecting it you savagely drive it into the most vulnerable part of a man's body, his groin.

You've taken a huge risk by doing this, gambling on the theory that if Agent Smith's programming has been equipped with anatomically correct male genitalia, then other agents might possess the same accoutrements.

When you hear Brown's pitiful whelp then feel his grip fall away you know that your gamble has paid off. You dare to cast a backwards glance over your right shoulder to make sure that Brown has truly been hurt. To your great relief he is writhing in pain on the floor. You have no time however to enjoy your momentary triumph. You have to get to that Desert Eagle before Jones finishes Smith off then turns his attentions on you.

As quick as flash you dive to the floor towards the gun. Jones sees what your intentions are and tries to thwart you but in order to do so he must let Smith go, which he does by tossing him aside like a rag doll. You land on the carpet with a heavy thud, your hand is outstretched ready to snatch your prize, but Jones, thanks to his agent abilities has grabbed the gun first. You go for the Desert Eagle anyway and soon you find yourself grappling for the gun with a being much more powerful than yourself.

Rolling around on the carpet with Agent Jones, you try desperately to wrench the firearm away from him. Then in the heat and confusion of the scuffle you unexpectedly hear the unmistakable sound of a gun going off.

One sickening thought seeps into your consciousness, dominating you, _fuck I'm hit!_

But you soon realize that is not the case at all when you see a perfect round little exit wound in the center of what once was Agent Jones' forehead. Said forehead now belonged to the recently deceased body of a middle aged African American male that had served as his host.

Before you could even register what was happening you see Smith rise to his feet. Despite the fact that he was almost throttled to death, he appears unfazed by his ordeal. With his smoking Desert Eagle drawn out in front him you begin to understand the nature of Jones' untimely albeit temporary demise. Smith had managed to fire his weapon, sending Agent Jones' programming in search for another host to inhabit.

Wide-eyed, you watch as a fully recovered Smith callously steps over the dead human's corpse then heads in Agent Brown's direction. The young agent is still rolling around on the floor with both of his hands cupped protectively in front of his crotch. As he moans in agony his side arm and sunglasses are lying on the floor next to him momentarily forgotten.

Smith has made quick work of closing the gap between himself and his former junior subordinate. He now stands next to the whimpering Brown, looming above him ready to unleash the wrath that you see burning in the depths of his steely blue eyes.

Smith's next words send shivers up and down your spine as he addresses Brown with an icy emotionless monotone, "I told you that you couldn't beat me. Now go and tell Father that he will meet his end soon enough. But your end, dear brother, is closer than you think. Too bad it is only temporary. See you in the next life!"

Horrified by his callousness, you observe Smith squeeze the trigger of his weapon to dispense a single bullet in the dead center of Agent Brown's chest cavity. The shot kills his host instantly. As Brown is forced to flee the carcass of his host, he leaves behind the dead body of an Asian woman.

Again you are left with no time to digest what has just transpired as you feel Smith pull you up by your forearms.

"We don't have much time. I'm pretty sure that Brown and Jones have replaced their host bodies and they are going to come back to finish what they started! We've got to get out of here!" Agent Smith says tensely.

You nod in agreement then say, "Yes let's go. I'd rather be a fugitive of the system than be here when those two assholes show up again!"

"Well said, Esmeralda. Now let's get going!" he counters back. The next thing you know you are hurriedly being led out of the now decimated hotel suite, its elegant décor reduced to rubble as a result of the recent altercation. As you step through the door towards a reality full of uncertainty you realize that you will be facing great peril at every turn. Nevertheless the knowledge that Smith will be facing the same dangers by your side strangely comforts you.

Then as you both take the stairs down towards the parking garage the Oracle's foreboding words bubble up to the surface of your mind:

_Remember child, no matter what Smith tells you, you must get out of the Matrix! Both of your lives depend upon it!_

Logic tells you that it is an omen of doom and you must take heed. Your heart however has already sealed your fate. It is at this moment that you come to the dreadful yet wonderful conclusion that you have been railing against all this time…

You have fallen hopelessly in love with the most unlikely of creatures: a sentient program. It is a betrayal against Zion, humanity and most importantly against the ideals that you've always held so near and dear to your heart. Now there will be hell to pay.

As you follow Agent Smith down the stairs, your mind formulates a single thought:

_God help me. God help us all._

End Chapter Five


	6. No Rest for the Wicked

**Prisoner of War**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Matrix, the Matrix owns me.

**Summary: **Well dear readers, now that Smith and Esmeralda are the run, they will have to constantly look over their shoulders. Not only has the Source unleashed legions of its agents to find and destroy them, the Zion Council has volunteered the crew of the Nebuchadnezzar and its captain, Morpheus, to jack into the Matrix to rescue their fellow rebel.

It seems that this pair of star-crossed lovers will be navigating through some rough waters in this chapter. But who will catch up them to them first, the Machines or crew from the Neb? Either way, it spells trouble for our fugitives. As always please read and review!

**Author's Note: **A great big thank you goes out to all of my wonderful readers. I'm so glad that I'm able to entertain and delight you with my humble little fic. I'll try not to disappoint you.

This chapter will be told in second person format from Smith's POV.

**Chapter Six**

**No Rest for the Wicked**

Your cobalt eyes, shielded behind the dark lenses of your sunglasses, are intent and focused on the long winding road ahead of you. Pensive, you are lost in a whirlwind of dark contemplations. The events that have led up to this moment keep replaying in your mind in a continuous loop. Esmeralda's capture, the botched up interrogation, your defiance against the Source's orders and ultimate dissention have all cumulated to this precise moment in time where you find yourself fleeing from the very system that has nurtured you and made you who are.

_But who exactly am I?_ _What am I_, you ask yourself. _If I am no longer an agent, what have I_ _become?_ The answers, it seems come easily to you, whether you like them or not: _rogue, renegade, rebel_.

Yes, a rebel. That's exactly what you are. Paradoxical, isn't? The burden of the current state of affairs rests entirely on your shoulders, and you know it. Because of your self-seeking need to alleviate your loneliness, to have someone of your very own, you've been transformed into the very thing you despise. Your mother is probably having a field-day.

lllll

With the twinkling lights of Mega City long behind you, there is nothing now but miles and miles of black asphalt stretching out into eternity. You've been driving all night, trying to put as much distance between you and your enemies. So far, there has been no sign of them, but one can never be too careful. Taking every precaution, including removing your earpiece, you had acquired the most inconspicuous vehicle that was available in the hotel's parking garage, a 1999 black Honda Civic. The car was definitely not representative of your usual tastes, but out of the necessity to keep a low profile, it sufficed. And knowing the System as well as you do, you were almost certain that the Source would never think to look for you behind the wheel of an economically mid-priced automobile.

Casting a sideways glance towards the sleeping woman in the passenger's seat, you try to reassure yourself that everything that has transpired and has yet to happen will be worth it in the end.

_It has to be, for her sake and for mine_.

The only thing that matters at present is getting to your new stronghold, tucked away in the Pocono's, far from the prying eyes of the System. From there, you'll be able to keep tabs on your father without fear of detection and when the time is right, launch your assault on both the Source and Zion. And as long as the firewalls hold up, you and Esmeralda will be relatively safe.

You barely notice the simulated Matrix sun rising in the east. However, when your keen sense of hearing identifies a slight alteration in your companion's breathing pattern, you become acutely aware that Esmeralda is about to awaken from her fitful slumber. With a yawn, she shifts slightly in her seat, and then slowly opens her eyes to look at you.

"Where are we?" she asks groggily. Crossing her arms in front of her chest, Esmeralda proceeds to rub her upper arms rather furiously with her hands. Deducing that the car's ambient temperature is too cold for her, you quickly reach out to turn the knob of the air-conditioning control panel to the "off" position.

"Better?" you inquire, sincerely concerned for her well-being.

Esmeralda mummers her reply, "Yes, thank you."

"We are still about three hours from our final destination," you inform her offhandedly.

"And where _exactly_ is that?" she asks with a tinge of sarcasm.

Wanting to shift the topic of conversation to more immediate matters, you notice the fuel gauge indicates that the gas tank is only one-quarter of the way full.

"We will have to stop for gas soon. My internal GPS tracking system has detected a service station about two miles up the road," you say, bringing your passenger up to speed on your current situation.

"Good!" she exclaims, and then adds, "I hope they have a food store, because I'm starving!"

"I'm sure that they do, I'll get you something to eat once we've arrived," you offer, pleased that her appetite has seemed to return to her.

Stretching out in her seat with feline grace she states casually, "It'll be great to get out and walk a little. I'm as stiff as board, you know!"

"No, Esmeralda. I'm afraid I cannot allow you to do that," you gruffly tell her as you keep your eyes on the road. The very prospect of her leaving the confines of the Honda has alarmed you greatly.

As expected, she immediately protests, "Why can't I? From what I can tell we're miles from nowhere! What could it hurt if I get out and stretch my legs a little?"

Turning your head sharply to face hers, your reply is short and to the point, "The gas station will be crawling with humans. And where there are humans…"

Sighing in defeat, Esmeralda mutters angrily, "…agents won't be far behind. O.K., I get it! I'll stay in the fucking car! Happy?"

Your face has become a stony mask. Its features are rigid and emotionless, never betraying the supreme satisfaction you are feeling regarding Esmeralda's promised compliance.

Stoically, you respond, "I'm absolutely elated, can't you tell?"

llll

As you pull the car into the brightly lit service station, you are on your guard. Every circuit, every fiber optic connection that runs through your system is immediately on high alert. Cautiously you coast over to the gas pump that appears to be the furthest away from building housing the attendant.

After parking the automobile and turning off the engine, you quickly open the car door to let yourself out.

Before you can completely exit the vehicle, you are halted by the sudden touch of Esmeralda's hand on the sleeve of your jacket.

"Yes, Esmeralda?" you ask evenly.

Smiling sheepishly she responds, "Hey, if they have cinnamon buns, could you get me one _por_ _favor_? I haven't had one of those in forever. Not since I was unplugged."

Pursing your lips together, you hesitate slightly before speaking again, "I'll see what I can do. Will there be anything else?"

Tilting her head a little to contemplate what her next demand will be, the rebel finally asks, "You wouldn't happen to have an extra Desert Eagle on you? You know…just in case we get company."

Sighing heavily, you firmly deny her request, "I'm sorry, but I don't think that it would be wise."

Then placing your hand gently on her still bandaged head, you steadfastly remind her, "And besides, we both know what happened the last time you had your hands on a gun."

Recoiling from your touch as if it burned her somehow, she glumly slumps in her seat. Angrily, Esmeralda averts her hazel green eyes from yours as she growls, "Fine, just get me the stupid bun then! But if anything happens to me, you'll be sorry!"

"Just do as you're told and I won't have to be sorry! I mean it, Esmeralda! Stay in the car and out of sight!" your command is exaggeratedly severe but necessary to keep her from harm.

At first, she says nothing. Nevertheless, unmistakably tangible and irreversible, you see it: the seething rage flashing in the verdant irises of her eyes. Staring daggers at you, she folds her arms tightly in front herself in a gesture of non-cooperation. The white-hot intensity of her gaze is so harsh, so penetrating -- for a split second you actually believe that "looks could kill". Then as if those bejeweled orbs aren't bad enough, the steady stream of Spanish expletives suddenly spewing forth from her perfectly shaped mouth are a most unwelcome bolt from the blue.

The curses being hurtled at you at warp speed are so profane and vulgar in nature, they would certainly make the surliest of sailors blush to hear them.

"_Hijo de puta!" _you hear her exclaim with a voice loud enough to wake the dead.

Your response is direct and abrupt. Clapping the large palm of your hand over her mouth to silence her, your voice drops to its lowest decibels, "Esmeralda, if you continue this erratic behavior, not only will you attract agents but every bounty hunter in the area. If you do not want wish to be captured and have the flesh peeled off your bones by the vultures that hunt us, then may I suggest a little more decorum on your part."

The significance of your deliberate low-key delivery is not lost on the newly subdued rebel. It has been made painfully obvious to Isis what the grave implications of her actions could be. Like dying embers, the fire and spirit in Esmeralda's eyes slowly extinguish. You further observe that fear has now taken center stage.

_Good, now we're getting somewhere_, your thoughts ring out triumphantly.

Regaining of control of the situation, you state coldly, "Now, Esmeralda, when I remove my hand from your mouth, you will have two choices: you can either sit in this car, quietly or you can spend the remainder of this trip locked inside the undersized trunk of aforementioned vehicle. It's up to you, which one will it be?"

As you slowly move your hand away from her face, with a ragged breath Isis gives her reply, "I'll behave, Smith. I promise."

"_Muy bien_, Esmeralda! Now that we've got that settled, I'll go get your breakfast."

With an arrogant little smile, you gingerly pat the right side of your jacket, reassuring yourself that your weapon is still in its holster. As you lock the car door and swiftly slam it shut, you happen to catch your reflection on the smooth surface of the window.

_Damn_, you curse silently to yourself, _this will never do_.

Coming to the realization that your agent attire is a dead give away, you quickly remove your thin black necktie then shove it into your pants pocket. Next you take off the pair of telltale G-man sunglasses and tuck them neatly away in the breast pocket of your suit jacket. Again you take a speedy glance at your likeness, but the man staring back at you still looks like an uptight government bureaucrat.

As an afterthought, you decide to run your fingers through your auburn colored hair, mussing up the clean-cut style worn by all agents of the system. Allowing a couple of strands of thinning hair to fall into your eyes, you then unfasten the first three buttons of your crisp white dress shirt, revealing the thick growth of chest hairs underneath. Finally you add the finishing touches to your more casual appearance by turning up the collar of your black Armani jacket and pushing up its sleeves three-quarters of the way up your arms.

Pleased with what you see in the reflective glass of the window, you suddenly notice an astonished Esmeralda staring admiringly at you. It seems that she likes what she sees judging from the expression on her face. You give her a supercilious little smirk before turning away to walk towards the store.

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"Good morning, sir. What'll it be?" the female attendant says cheerfully from behind the pane of bulletproof glass. She is a young girl of about nineteen or twenty, with sparkling blue eyes and long sandy blond hair. Running your sensors over the girl's slender frame, to your relief you ascertain she is AI. At least there won't be any danger of an agent materializing through her.

Removing your wallet from your breast pocket, you begin to thumb through its contents. Tucked into the row of slits cutting across inside the leather money holder are a plethora of credit cards ready at your disposal. However given the situation, you decide that cash is the best form of payment. Plucking out a crisp twenty dollar bill, you slip it towards the attendant underneath the slight opening of the Plexiglas partition.

"Twenty dollars on pump number nine, please," you say mimicking the girl's pleasant tone. Suddenly remembering Esmeralda's request you inquire, "Do you have any cinnamon buns?"

Regretfully the attendant informs you, "Nope, sorry, fresh out." Then with a hopeful little glimmer in her eyes she adds, "But I do have some nice Danishes. Cheese and blueberry I think."

"I'll take two, thank you," you respond in kind. Esmeralda will have to accept this alternative form of sustenance for now.

"OK, that'll be $23.50," the girl announces the new total for your purchase.

Handing over the required remittance, you wait quietly for her to bag up the pastries. After slipping the small white paper sack containing the Danishes beneath aperture, she processes the transaction with speedy efficency. You take a moment to initiate a thorough infrared scan of the establishment. You find that is it practically deserted at this time of the morning, save for one other customer standing over at the coffee station. You discern that he is slowly pouring himself a piping hot cup of Joe. The man's readings are human, much to your intense dislike. Something else about the man strikes you as odd, and vaguely familiar, yet you can't quite put your finger on what it could be.

As the attendant slides your change towards you, you vote on the side of caution. Quietly you decide to exit the store to fuel your car.

The moment you step outside, the hairs on the back of your neck bristle and stand on end. Just as you expected, you sense the man's presence trailing closely behind you.

_Shit. So they finally caught up with me,_ you disappointedly tell yourself

However after your eyes hurriedly swipe across the expanse of the well lit fueling station, you take note that there are no government issued cars parked anywhere. In fact the only other mode of transportation visible to you is the 1949 Vincent Series C Black Shadow motorcycle stationed on the curb in front of the store.

_Nice bike_, you contemplate. As you admire its sleek lines and high powered engine, a sudden flash of recognition heighten your defense mechanisms into hyper-drive. A memory gradually comes into full focus as you recall seeing a very similar motorcycle on the road last night.

lllll

At first you had paid it no heed as it followed your car at a distance. But when the motorbike sped up, and started to tailgate you, there had been a cause for concern. The driver for some unknown reason had started beeping their horn incessantly trying to get your attention. Quickly you had peered into the rearview mirror, but the harsh glare from the lone headlight prevented you from discerning the driver's identity. On impulse you had slipped a hand into your jacket, gripping the cool smooth butt of your gun.

You had shot nervous glance in Esmeralda's direction. Thanks in part to the Demerol, she had been sleeping soundly, blissfully aware of the immediate danger. Slowly, you had removed your weapon out of its holster. With a heavy sigh, you now recall another vivid memory. Oddly enough the gun had felt heavy and alien to you, a dead weight in your hand.

Your Desert Eagle had always served as an extension of yourself, a vital part of who you are, administering death and justice in one fell swoop.

However, the tables had indeed turned. Your weapon's purpose had now become something else entirely. No longer on the offensive, you had cast aside the dogged task of relentlessly hunting down criminals with deadly determination. Now, due to a reversal of fortune brought about by your own culpability, you were the hunted one.

The System's pursuit of you and the rebel would be ruthless, persistent and inexhaustible. And because of this, for the first time in all of your decades of service to the Source, your gun would now be used to protect a revolutionary. You, a former agent of the system, had now become the self-appointed guardian to an insurgent, a sworn enemy.

The irony had not escaped you.

But as you gaze upon Esmeralda's peaceful face, you are quickly reminded of what you feel for her. And for those feelings alone you are willing to destroy her world and wreck havoc on your own. If reducing Zion to ashes and bringing about the Architect's reign over the Matrix to an untimely end meant that she would remain at your side, then so be it. You love her, and that's all you care about, all that matters.

_Although Mother took it upon herself to fuck around with my programming, I should really thank her. I've now come to the unforeseen realization that I have indeed been unfulfilled, but I was too blinded by duty and purpose to see it. _

_All of my victories, hollow at best. My triumphs were meaningless, worth nothing. As for my dedication and hard work, it was all performed in servitude to the so-called greater good. Never was I allowed to have anything of my very own, not even my thoughts belong to me. My mind, my psyche always invaded, analyzed and probed without my consent. _

_Every waking hour was spent connected, no, chained to a cold impersonal System that suppresses individuality and free thinking. The machine collective was all that mattered, keeping it alive and well. Soon after the war, personal liberties for AI had been sacrificed for the sake of maintaining order and continuity, repetitive, monotonous continuity. It was never questioned, it just was. _

_Every program knew its purpose and carried out their tasks without complaint, without argument._

_But there was one thing that the Supreme Creator never counted on: me._

_Long before Mother altered my subroutines, I had already begun to question the raison d'être for my existence. There just had to be more to this construct than tedious, cyclic utility. _

_The rebels talk of not being free, but they could not possibly begin to fathom what true enslavement is. At least the humans get to choose how they carry out their lives within the Matrix, free to dream, to love and be loved. AI do not have that option, we are slaves to purpose, nothing else!_

_But I want more and I shall have it! I cannot be the only program that sees how wasteful our existence has become; we too should have the right to choose to a fruitful life. Once Father's droning regime is toppled, there will be a new era of freedom and true prosperity for AI, as it was intended from the beginning. And I shall not rest until it comes to pass._

Again you looked into the rearview mirror, and sure enough your mysterious shadow had still been on your tail. Without a moment's hesitation, you had brought up your Desert Eagle to rest on your right shoulder, as you continue to steer the car with your left hand. With long barrel facing the rear window, you had waited for your target to be in range. Keeping an eye on the cyclist, you remained calm with a steady finger on the trigger.

Then just as you were about to fire your weapon, the driver of the motorcycle surprised you when he had unexpectedly changed lanes on the two-lane highway. Before the bike had completely passed you, for a split second, the very fabric of space and time had stalled, allowing you to briefly look upon the helmet less cyclist. The length of his trench coat had been trailing out behind him. The sight of shiny black leather flapping in the wind reminded you of the wings of a giant bat taking flight.

Unabashedly staring back at you had been the face of a Caucasian middle-aged man, somewhere between his mid to late-forties sporting a thin devilish goatee. Even though it had been the dead of night, his eyes were hidden from scrutiny behind a pair of dark-lensed sunglasses. And since he had worn no protective head gear of any kind, you able to discern his most striking feature, a completely shaven head.

Then much to your utter astonishment, and you remember this detail quite clearly, he had flashed you a broad brilliant smile, almost roguish in nature. The sight of that mischievous grin had taken you aback so much, it had caused you to falter. It was only a moment's hesitation; truly the briefest of indecisions, but it had permitted the cyclist to pass your vehicle. And as the passage of time abruptly resumed its normal chronology, you had quickly lowered the driver's side window to get a better aim at the taunting bastard. But soon frustration had given way to anger as the motorcycle and its skilled operator sped off at high velocity. As you had fired your weapon, you could only watch as the man had been swallowed whole by insidious gloom of the night.

lllll

Fast forwarding to the present, you are still making your slow, deliberate trek back towards the car, ever mindful of the man's presence behind you. When are certain that you are both out of the attendant's vantage point, you try to summarily withdraw your weapon, gracefully pivoting your body on one heel to confront the trailing shadow.

However, it is you that is caught off guard when you find yourself staring down the twin barrels of a 12 gauge sawed-off shotgun. Even more astounding is the identity of the man aiming the formidable weapon straight at your chest.

Flashing that same obnoxious grin from the previous night, the owner of the motorcycle offers his salutations, "Hello, Agent Smith! Surprised to see me?"

Infuriated by this human's annoying impertinence, you attempt to withdraw your own weapon. However, your actions are cut short when the shotgun is shoved roughly into your chest, just beneath the ribcage.

Smiling even broader, the jeering stranger looks at you from behind his dark shades and warns, "Nuh-uh, not so fast buddy-boy! We haven't even been properly introduced!"

Making no aggressive movements, your response is cool, calm and collected, "Yes, I agree. Introductions are indeed in order, but you have me at a slight disadvantage, Mr. …"

"…Cypher?" Esmeralda's astonished voice calls out from behind you.

End Chapter Six


	7. The Enemy of My Enemy

**Prisoner of War**

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the Matrix, the Matrix owns me.

**Summary**: When we last left Agent Smith he was staring down the dual barrels of a 12-gauge shotgun. To his astonishment the man holding gun apparently is an acquaintance of his willing captive, Esmeralda. Smith wants answers and he wants them fast! With danger looming, Smith is still three hours away from his fortress. He has no time or patience for rebel duplicity.

But, this stranger in his midst is about to drop a bombshell that could help Smith to overthrow the Architect. Will Smith take the rebel at his word, or will he rid himself of this nuisance once and for all? If you want to find out, you will have to read on. And while you're here, please don't forget to review!

**Author's Note**: Once again, thank you my lovely and loyal readers. You know who are! This chapter is written in second person format from Esmeralda's POV.

**Chapter Seven**

**The Enemy of My Enemy…**

"…Cypher?" you ask, scarcely trusting what your eyes are seeing. Here is Smith, a powerful program, being held at bay by one of your closest friends, a mere human. A red-pill if you will. It is an astonishing and unbelievable sight to behold.

_And by the way Smith is reacting to that shotgun, you'd think Cypher whipped out some Kryptonite on his machine ass,_ you muse. The rogue agent hasn't moved a muscle.

"Esmeralda, get back in the car!" Smith abruptly snarls viciously, obviously infuriated at you for having left the protective sanctuary of the Honda. Undeterred, you continue to move closer towards the men.

Suddenly you stop in your tracks when your fellow rebel addresses you, "Isis, is that you kid?" The expression on his face is a mixture of relief and concern.

Nodding slowly, you reply, "Yeah, Cyph', it's me."

"God, are you a sight for sore eyes!" he exclaims happily. But when he notices the wound dressing wrapped securely around your head, Cypher's friendly smile turns into a fierce scowl. Pushing the length of his shotgun into Smith's gut, he growls at your captor, "What did you do to her, huh, you piece of shit? If you've hurt her so help me…"

"I did nothing of the kind, human! Now kindly remove your weapon from my midsection, or I will gladly do it for you," Smith hisses menacingly, his glacial blue stare never leaving Cypher's face.

Fearing the worst, you move faster than you thought possible, managing to wedge your body in front of Smith's. "No, Cypher, please! You don't understand, he didn't hurt me, he saved me!" you plead anxiously.

"Saved you?" Cypher scoffs skeptically as he lowers his armament slightly. "C'mon Isis, you expect me to buy that a machine actually spared your life?"

Cypher's words resonate with the truth, a truth that you've been railing against for days. There is no denying that you yourself have been living in a state of suspended disbelief since this whole ugly affair started. How can you possibly begin to explain what has happened, when your own consciousness can barely comprehend it all?

The inner turmoil of your conflicting feelings rages within you, compounded by your sudden awareness of Smith's rigid body behind yours. The curve of your back is now perfectly aligned to his muscular torso as you feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. His breathing is controlled, steady and a complete contrast to the tension you sense in him. Smith is wound up tighter than a top, a ticking time bomb that is about to go off at slightest provocation.

This state of affairs is a powder keg, and if you don't think of something to say, it will quickly spiral out of control.

Somehow, to your utter astonishment the right words begin to surge forth. "Listen, Cyph'. I know what this looks like, but I swear to you, Smith has not hurt me. He helped me!"

Looking into your compatriot's eyes, you can see that his skepticism is unrelenting, so you desperately try to appeal to his logic, "Look do you think that I'd actually be standing here talking to you right now if he wanted me dead?

Still, your fellow rebel remains impassive; unconvinced by your impassioned speech. So you try again. "Think about it Cypher, this is an agent program, the most deadly of sentient beings in fact! You and I have both fought against his likeness in the training construct, and lost miserably! If he wanted to kill you or me for that matter, we would have worm food ages ago!"

Seconds creep into endless minutes of painful silence as you agonizingly wait for Cypher to digest what you've just told him. Holding your breath, your hazel eyes zone in on his face, trying to read what is behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. Finally, after what has seemed like eons of time, the shotgun is carefully lowered, but it is not out of sight.

Exhaling a sigh of relief, you whisper your gratitude, "_Gracias_, Cypher."

"You're welcome, kid. Now would you mind explaining what you're doing here with him?" inquires your friend as he jerks his thumb in Smith's direction.

Then without warning, the stoic Agent Smith springs to life as he comes around from behind you. With unnatural speed, he manages to grab Cypher by his throat with one hand, while the other wrenches the shotgun away from the male rebel. You watch helplessly as Smith slams Cypher's body against the brightly lit plastic surface of soda dispensing machine. A sickening feeling starts to churn away in your stomach.

This scenario is all too familiar, a ghastly reminder of the one that resulted in the death of your shipmates.

_Oh God, it's happening again!_

"Smith, no!" you shriek as you move closer to him.

Without looking back, the sentient program snaps at you, "Esmeralda, stay back! This is between Mr. Reagan and me!"

Out of fear for your friend's life, you proceed forward, unhindered. "Smith, please don't do this!" Cypher is struggling to get away, but it is to no avail, the agent is much too powerful. The squeaking sounds Cypher's boots are producing as the heels rub against the surface of the soda pop machine is deafening. He is wheezing gasping for simulated oxygen as Smith slowly squeezes the life out of him.

Not knowing what else to do, you fast approach the towering agent and begin to pummel his broad back with your tiny fists. "Stop it, Smith! You're killing him, you're _killing_ him!"

Never loosening the grip on Cypher's neck, Smith's head whips around to look at you, "He's dangerous, Esmeralda! Do you actually believe that he materialized here, at this precise place and time by coincidence? He was on the same road with us last night, following us!"

Your eyes become wide with surprise, your flying fists freezing in midair. Looking at your friend, you ask shakily, "I-Is this true, Raphael?"

Upon hearing his true name spoken, Cypher's shielded gaze sharply turns in your direction. In a frantic attempt to answer you in the affirmative, he begins to bob his head up and down, losing his eye protection in the process.

Confusion and anger start to take root in your mind again. Flurries of questions whirl violently in your head, causing it to ache unmercifully. Struggling against the pain, you close your eyes. However, the throbbing is so bad, you feel as if your skull is about to split wide open.

Gritting your teeth, you manage to ask, "Why?"

When Cypher fails to respond, Smith peels his body off the red and white exterior of the refrigerated beverage dispenser, only to slam it even harder against the machine. You notice Raphael wincing with great discomfort, as he continues to fight for every breath.

"You heard the lady, Mr. Reagan. Why are you here?" Smith asks with malicious intent. His eyes have narrowed into twin cobalt silvers, full of suspicion and loathing.

Finally, Cypher manages to gasp, "M-Morpheus, it was Morpheus that sent me!"

Smith's face twists into an unrecognizable grimace at the very mention of your former lover's name. You immediately take in the clearly identifiable flash of jealously flicking dangerously behind the blue of his eyes.

"Morpheus," Agent Smith repeats. Spitting out the name of his greatest enemy like an odious curse. Once again you are forced to watch Smith effectively smash Cypher's body into the soda machine, this time cracking the plastic veneer.

Giving full credence to the importance of the information Cypher might possess, you say rather quickly, "Smith, stop! We need to know why Cypher was sent. Morpheus wouldn't send one of his top operatives unless there is a good reason! And I for one would like to know what that reason is!"

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After few moments of careful deliberation, to your great relief Smith relents, relaxing his hold on Cypher's throat. But before the revolutionary could enjoy his newfound freedom, the rugged would-be exile deftly draws out his sidearm. Then with a piston-like motion, his left hand stabs forward, roughly pinning Raphael's already tender shoulder against the shattered synthetic shell of the soda machine.

Shoving the business end of the Desert Eagle against Cypher's temple, Smith hisses between clenched teeth. "Mr. Reagan. So we finally meet. I've read your file, most impressive. You were a program writer for Microsoft, if I remember correctly. You even headed up the team that would later revolutionize the use of the home computer for all time by developing Windows 95. But three years before it was launched, you had inexplicably disappeared, isn't that right?"

"Look let's just get to the point, if you're going to shoot, do it already!" Cypher spat back defiantly.

Smith responds with a smile so predatory in nature, it sends frigid bolts of trepidation up and down your spine.

"In due time, Mr. Reagan, in due time, but first you are going to tell me what I want to know!"

To make his point, the agent pushes the tip of his gun even deeper into the soft vulnerable flesh of the rebel's head. Your eyes can't help but see Raphael flinch from the pain that Smith's instrument of death is causing him to feel.

Sucking in a breath between his tightly clenched teeth, the gulp of air is finally expelled in the form of a desperate plea. "All right, all right, I'll talk! Just get him off of me, will ya' Isis?"

Willing yourself to remain calm within a tempest of great distress, you somehow find the strength to draw near the avenging agent. Ever so gently you lay your hand on Smith's shoulder. Immediately, you are taken aback by the tension in his muscles. The agent stands firm, rigid and inflexible, his entire body the epitome of severity. Still, you press on, you have to. Only you can diffuse the tinderbox that contains Smith's killer instincts.

"Smith," you start off carefully. He remains immobile, an unflappable computer program, unmoved by human sentiment.

_There's good in him, Isis, you know this, you've seen it!_

"Smith," you say again, this time with more conviction.

At long last he responds with cavernous rumble. "What is it, Esmeralda?"

Keeping your voice steady and calm you inform him, "We need to know what's going on. If you kill him now, then we'll never know what we are up against."

Again you observe Agent Smith mulling over the significance what you've just said. After a few tension filled moments he turns his head to face you. "Very well, we shall do it your way," then twisting his intense azure gaze onto Cypher's frightened expression, he punctuates his avowal with, "for now."

The agent suddenly releases the very visibly shaken rebel from his vise-like grip. You watch as the Matrix's gravity pulls Cypher down until he lands on the solid concrete below with a resounding thump.

Crouching down to his level, your eyes seek Cypher's as your hand is placed gently on his bald head in a gesture of friendship and concern. "Are you alright, Cyph'?"

He assures you of his wellbeing with a quick little nod.

Desperate for answers, you immediately bombard your compatriot with a series of questions. "Why are you here, Cypher? Why did Morpheus send you? And why were you following us last night?"

Raising his hands up in a gesticulation of surrender, Cypher resigns himself to respond. "Okay, okay, you win! I was sent on a goodwill mission, as an emissary to negotiate for your safe return to Zion!"

"In exchange for what?" Smith suddenly spits out from behind you.

Cypher now addresses your alleged captor as he lifts his eyes to look at him. "The Zion Council knows all about your little rift between you and the System. They also know it will only be a matter of time before agents catch up to you. All we want is Isis, what you machines do to one another is not our concern. However, I've been authorized to offer something that could turn the tide in your favor…"

Suddenly feeling a chill creeping up the back of your neck, you sense Agent Smith moving closer to you.

"What are you talking about, rebel scum? And be quick with your answer, your pathetic little life depends on it!" barks the rouge agent.

"The codes to the Matrix's mainframe, that's our offer," Cypher abruptly blurts out.

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Wide eyed, you can't believe what you've just heard. "Cyph' what in the hell are you saying? How you can the Council have access to something like that?"

"She is right Mr. Reagan, how can Zion know the codes to the Matrix mainframe? Even I do not know them all. What you are offering is as impossible as it is improbable. You are a liar, Mr. Reagan."

Without turning around, you somehow know that Smith has redrawn his weapon and is now aiming it at Cypher.

"You've presented us nothing we can use, Mr. Reagan. Regrettably for you, it is time to say goodbye." Smith says coldly.

The unmistakable resonance of a Desert Eagle's hammer being pulled back invades your auditory senses, filling you with dread.

Your heart feels as if it's about to rupture inside your chest, as the cardiac muscle beats with erratic percussion. The throbbing in your head returns with a vengeance, the pain unbearable, as warm tears start to trickle down your face.

Cypher is going to die, and you are powerless to stop it. You slowly look over your right shoulder and your suspicions are confirmed. There is Smith, with weapon drawn and a taut finger on the trigger, ready to shoot. But, when he sees your face, his hate-filled expression transforms into one of shameful lament, as he quickly averts his eyes away from you.

_There is still hope! He feels guilt and regret. My God, that's absolutely extraordinary_ _for a machine_, you think to yourself. You are completely amazed by the rapid emotional evolution that Smith has undergone in the few short hours you've been in his custody.

"No, wait! Please wait," Cypher begs. "Okay, you're right, I lied, but only because I was told to by Morpheus! He was taking a huge gamble and I told him so! He somehow got it into that thick chrome dome of his that your need to destroy the Source outweighed your hatred for Zion. So he concocted this harebrained scheme!"

"And why should I believe you, human?" Smith asks skeptically.

"Look, I know that you shouldn't, but I care about the kid, here," Cypher explains as he points a finger in your direction. "She's like a sister to me, man. When she was first unplugged I had taken her under my wing, showed her the ropes, you know? Then she got reassigned to the _Luxor_. The Council thought it best, 'said something about 'conflict of interest' and all that bullshit. It may interest you to know that I didn't exactly _agree_ with Morpheus' plan. I only signed up for this dog and pony show to make sure Isis was okay."

Smirking with the level of arrogance that is uniquely Smith's, the former agent now crouches down beside you. Your peripheral vision sees him lower his weapon for the second time.

Peering into Cypher's wary face, Agent Smith carefully chooses his words as he drawls out, "Well, Mr. Reagan. It appears that I'm not the only one having a 'rift' with those in authority. Tell me, when did the real world begin to disillusion you?"

Now it was Cypher's turn to get angry. His thin lips pulled back in a defiant sneer as rage burned in his dark eyes. "You don't know what the _fuck _you're talking about!"

Smith's smirk spread across his full lips, broadening into an almost demonic grin. "Oh really Raphael, or do your friends call you _Ralphie_? Well, Ralphie, you may have been able to mask your regret at having chosen the red pill from your crewmates, but I can _smell_ the stink of treachery on you."

Confused, you are prompted to ask, "Smith? Cypher? What's going on here?"

"Don't listen to him, Isis!" your friend says nervously. "He's just trying rattle your chains, bamboozle you."

"It's Mr. Reagan that is being deceitful here, Esmeralda, not I. He's not what he appears to be, isn't that right Ralphie?" Smith says the latter with a mocking jeering tone.

Frustration forces you to rise to your feet. It takes every ounce of fortitude you posses to remain where you are. Instinct is telling you to just get the hell out of here, to try to make a run for Cypher's bike and gun it to the closest exit you can find. But then that nagging little feeling starts up again, the one that has kept you at Smith's side in spite of everything you know to be right and wrong. The feeling that you'll certainly burn in Hades for, if there is such a place.

Yes, the chilling certainty that you've earned your place amongst the damned tightens itself around you, like a hangman's noose. No matter what you do, no matter where you go, you can't escape the terrible truth that has condemned you: you're in love with a cold, unfeeling and ruthless executioner that would not give a second thought to sending Cypher to oblivion, and yet you love him. Why? What redeeming quality could Smith posses? What could you possibly see in him that would illicit or warrant such sentiment, such a depth of feeling from you? Sadly, you conclude that you must be utterly desperate, and completely out of your mind.

And then, just like clockwork, the little voice in your head chimes in:

_There is good in him, Esmeralda. He can't help what he is, but he _is_ changing. You can feel it, can't you?_

You soon realize that you can't indulge in self-analysis right now, and explore your inner feelings. More importantly, the nonsensical twaddle going on between the two men has infuriated you. Shaking your head to dispel the mental interference, you shout, "I have had enough of this pissing contest! If you guys want to douse each other with testosterone, then do it on your own fucking time! Now out with it Cypher, are you the cavalry sent to save the day?"

With a wry little smile, he responds, "Nope, sorry kid. I'm only here to negotiate terms, nothing more. But since your _boyfriend _here saw through Morpheus' little ruse, I'm all out of bargaining chips."

The word "boyfriend" doesn't set well with you, not at all, nor does the perceptive little tone in Cypher's voice. _He knows something_, your thoughts ring out alarmingly. But just a quickly, your mind dismisses the notion. _How could he possibly know anything, he_ _hasn't been monitoring what's happened to us_. Only your operator, Anubis, can do that…

And then it hits you: Anubis! Of course! He must have sent Zion a secret transmission along with a distress signal before Smith had a chance to send his sentinels to guard the ship. As result, the members of the council were informed of the full details of your captivity. _Great! Just great_, you mentally moan, mortified at the thought of your superiors, especially Councilor West, taking a gander at your near naked form just before you tried to blow your brains out.

With a nervous little laugh, you scoff, "_Boyfriend_? No, Smith is not my boyfriend!" The words tumbled out of your mouth without a thought, lacking any consideration of the impact they might make. When you see Smith, who is still crouching below you, his body stiffens just a bit.

Almost immediately, you wish you could take back what you've just said. But it's too late, the damage has been done. You want to believe that his stoic expression is normal, quintessentially Smith, But you know better, don't you? You've seen what lies beneath the cold visage and the passionate hunger in his riveting gaze. Impossible at it is to believe; amazingly you somehow know that he is hurt by your hasty declaration of his non-status in your life. Regret starts to seep into your consciousness, slowly swirling itself into a sickly malaise.

_Crap, you don't know when to keep your big trap shut, huh Isis? _

"Anyway we're getting off track here. So if you're not here to take me back, who will be coming for me?" you ask hurriedly, secretly hoping that your inquiry can redirect the focus away from your obvious blunder. But when Smith turns his pain-filled eyes your way, the fervent intensity reflected in the cobalt depths stabs at your heart.

You've hurt him deeply, there's no doubt it.

But just when you feel the overwhelming compulsion to offer up some half-assed apology, he saves you the trouble by retreating behind a wall of inhuman detachment.

"Morpheus, of course, "the voice emanating from Smith is scarcely recognizable. The mechanical tone has immobilized you, tearing at the fabric of your soul. The agent that still dwells within him is now front and center. Gone is any hint of the sensitivity or kindness he so willingly exhibited for your benefit.

Slowly, you watch Smith ascend until he stands at his full 6' 4" height, the cobalt blue of his penetrating stare never waivers, not even for an instant. Towering over you, his rigid stance, deadpan expression and resolute silence proclaim without words who and what he is. He is an A.I., a machine, through and through.

As your mind tries to reconcile two halves of Smith's persona, you hear him gruffly address Cypher, "Get up human."

The male rebel immediately obeys. Once Cypher is on his feet, Smith speaks once more, "I've decided to let you live, Mr. Reagan."

A rush of relief quickly spreads across your compatriot's face. However it is short-lived as Smith squashes all hope for a reprieve. "However, your second lease on life comes with a price, I'm afraid."

"Wait a second! Hold the phone! Whaddya mean by 'price'?" Suspicion causes Cypher's dark eyes to narrow. "Look man, I told you everything I know, I told you everything the Council knows! I ain't got nothing else!" he declares, completely indignant.

"On the contrary, Ralphie, I believe that you are in a perfect position to obtain the intelligence required. As a both a resident of Zion and crew member on Morpheus' ship, you can keep tabs on the goings on in your world, keeping me abreast of the Council's plans. You can be my _inside man_" Smith drawls on with a slight smile tugging the corners of his mouth.

Cypher's eyebrows shoot up to the upper folds of his forehead in surprise. "What are you saying, agent? Do you want me to spy for you? Is that it?"

"Your words, human, not mine. But since you put it so delicately, the answer is yes." When the rouge agent notices that you've become wide-eyed and your mouth is agape, he addresses you. "Come now, Miss Campos, I'm not asking Mr. Reagan anything that he hasn't willingly done before. Isn't that right, Ralphie?"

Casting a nervous little glance your way, Cypher quickly tries to dispel what Smith has just revealed. "Isis, he's lying. It's bullshit, all bullshit! He's an agent for Christ's sake! Who are going to believe him or me?"

Angered, Smith roars, "Mr. Reagan, you are trying my patience! If you continue with your denials, I will be forced to rescind my leniency towards you!" His every word stings like acid, burning a searing hole deep into your psyche that allows the seeds of doubt to be firmly planted.

Could it be true? Could Cypher actually be a spy, a turncoat, a good-for-nothing traitor? The very idea of it seems ludicrous, impossible to even contemplate. But didn't falling in love with an artificially intelligent being seem just as preposterous to you a few days ago?

Mystification takes a hold of you and won't let go. Contradictory, warring emotions and loyalties scratch and claw their way to the surface. You want to kick and scream to high heaven, but you find that you are unable to utter a sound, or budge a centimeter. This is the worst feeling in the world, the excruciating lingering sensation of waiting for the other proverbial shoe to drop.

Slowly you turn your gaze to watch the twitchy little man carefully. You try to read his body language for a sign of the deceitfulness that Smith has just accused him of. It is now quite apparent that Cypher is actually cringing under the verbal lashings from Smith's sharp tongue. He's practically squirming like a worm on a hook. You can't help but notice the huge beads of perspiration that have appeared on the roundness of his shaven head. Now the droplets of sweat are slowly trickling down the sides of his face.

Finally, after not being able to withstand the quiet a moment longer, you find your voice. "Raphael, say something, anything! Is Smith telling the truth? Are you a spy?"

After a few more moments of silence, he answers. "Yes and no."

Bewildered, you fire back with, "What the fuck?"

Spreading his arms out in an apologetic gesture, the man that you have trusted and loved as a brother approaches you. "Isis, honey, I'm sorry you had to find out this way. Believe me this was not the way this whole thing was suppose to go down!"

Unconvinced, your eyes glare at him with fiery brilliance. "Tell me Cyph'! What wasn't supposed to go down?" you hiss at him, every word laced with mistrust and newborn hate.

Hastily, he manages to lay a hand on your shoulder, but just as quickly you brush it off. Your eyes challenge him to continue with his tale. With a heavy sigh, he complies with your non-verbal request.

"Smith is partially right. I am a spy, of sorts. But don't get the wrong idea. I'm not working with the metal heads like your friend here wants you to believe. I was approached by Councilor West himself about a year ago. He wanted me to go under cover, actually pose a disgruntled red-pill that would be willing to sell out Zion in exchange for re-insertion into the Matrix."

"Why? Why would a Council member solicit _you_ to do this?" you ask in a dry, crackling voice that you hardly distinguish as your own.

"There were rumors of the existence of a seditious faction within Zion, a small group of dissenters secretly working with the machines right under our noses. At first, the Council chose to ignore the problem, dismissing it as hearsay and conjecture. But as more and more of our closely guarded secrets continued to seep out to both the established power structure and exiled community in the Matrix, it was time to formulate a plan to plug up the leaks by any means necessary."

Cypher pauses for a moment, and looks at you. Deducing that he might be waiting for a reaction from either you or Smith, he takes your slight nod as an indication to carry on with his outrageous account of insurgents in Zion and cloak and dagger missions within the Matrix.

"Councilor West didn't want a full blown panic on his hands so he only told those closest to him what was going on. An investigation was quietly conducted by Commander Loc and the Councilor's adopted son, the late, great Ramses, captain of the _Luxor._"

That last bit of information has slightly taken you aback, but you try your best not show your surprise. "Go on, Cypher. I'm all ears," you say encouragingly. You are curious to find out what your deceased superior's involvement was in all of this.

"Anyway, it was Ramses that discovered that the dissidents not only existed, but they were great in number, organized and planning to hand Zion over to the machines on a silver platter. The group, who call themselves _Veritas Suprema,_ is mostly comprised of pissed off former coppertops that wish they had taken the blue pill. The way they see it, they were unplugged under false pretenses. If they had been told of the true conditions of life in the real world, they would have chosen to stay in the Matrix. Go figure.

The leader of this little Boy Scout troop is some guy named Janus. Problem is no one outside the splinter group has ever seen his face, and time was running out to stop him. So Commander Loc suggested that an operative be found to successfully infiltrate the group without raising suspicions. The spy had to an unplugged human, someone that by outward appearances, didn't buy into the whole prophecy of the One. Perhaps even brought up on charges for insubordination at one time and given disciplinary action by a superior officer. Someone that didn't fit the mold and appeared to be resentful of his so-called freedom. When they recruited me for this little enterprise, they got exactly who they were looking for, my dear Isis, someone that could pass Janus' smell test."

You notice that Smith has said absolutely nothing during Cypher's dissertation. He has been listening intently, taking it all in and processing the information.

_Perhaps he is cross-referencing the data with his own files to see if Cypher's_ _story checks out, _you quietly think to yourself.

"So for the better part of a year I've been an active member of this dissident group, gaining their trust by giving them bits of information they could then offer up to the machines in hopes of one day being reinserted into the system. I'm still trying to meet the head honcho himself, but I'd probably have better luck getting an audience with the Pope than a meeting with the mysterious Janus.

Morpheus, the poor dope, has no idea of my double life nor do the others that serve on the Neb. Of course this has all been sanctioned by Councilor West and the data I've turned over to the traitors is not detrimental to Zion in anyway. All the while, I've been privy to the inner workings of the faction and have kept Commander Loc informed of their latest strategies. So far we've been able to stay a few steps ahead of Janus, and at times even thwarting his some of his plans. But it will only be a matter of time before he discovers that there's a spy in his midst."

"I've heard enough, Mr. Reagan! Nothing you have told us today holds a grain of truth! I have searched my extensive files for any reference to _Veritas Suprema_ or its leader, Janus. As you might have expected, I've found nothing! Although, it may interest you to know that I did come across _your_ file. It was quite fascinating, and rather illuminating, if you ask me. The file's contents in fact reveal that _you _have double crossed quite a number of your own people for your own personal gain. I wonder what would happen to you if your fellow Zionists knew of your deception," Smith announces smugly.

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Cypher raises an eyebrow then smiles. His New Yorker cockiness returns to him in full force. "File, _schmile._ I don't give a shit what it says. You machines have fabricated and orchestrated human beings' lives for more than a century, buddy boy! So who knows how many lies are in that so-called official file of yours?"

Smith grimaces as you notice that Cypher's little tirade has somehow struck a nerve with him.

His confidence, made painfully obvious to you, Cypher basks in the knowledge that he has regained the upper hand. His cocky smile broadens even further.

Then he delivers his one-two punch, his _coupe de grâce_. "It doesn't surprise me one bit that you've been kept in the dark about all this, Smith, not one bit. You see pal, this thing is way beyond you or any of your agents. This is huge and goes all the way to the top."

Pausing for dramatic affect, he waits, letting the tension build to a fever pitch. Then, at long last Cypher pulls the rug right from under Smith with his next statement. "It seems that Janus is in tight with some dude you machines call the Architect. And from what I understand, he's the big cheese when it comes to the Matrix."

If Smith had any blood running in his veins, it would have drained away from his face by now. Judging from the pallid color of his complexion, it appeared as if that's exactly what has happened. Then he utters one word that completely floors you.

"Father."

"What did you say?" you dare to ask, afraid of the reply you might receive.

"The Architect is my father; he is also the one that has ordered my deletion and your death, Esmeralda" he answers evenly.

You are at a loss for words; nothing could express the utter despair of this moment. Death it seems is waiting in the wings, ready to envelope you in its dark, numbing embrace.

"Damn, where I come from we usually give our kids a spanking or a time-out. But to actually order a hit on your own son, that is totally fucked up! Sucks to be you, huh Smith?" Cypher says insultingly.

"Shut up Cypher! You have done nothing but try to pull this mind job on me! Did you actually expect me to believe that there's a rebellion within the rebellion? Humans willing to sellout their own kind for the creature comforts of a false reality? You're full of shit and to think that I trusted you!" you lash out, as you fight to keep the tears from falling from your eyes.

"Hey kid, I didn't mean to upset you – I really only came here to see if you were all right. I want to help, I really do."

You turn your back on him, refusing to dignify his outlandish story with a response. Who do you trust, who do you believe? Smith, Cypher? Even Councilor West is suspect now. And what of Ramses, could there have been more to his death than meets the eye? Was he perhaps sold out to the machines by _Veritas Suprema? _Did they found out that your captain had been on to them? And what about Smith's involvement, does he know more than he's letting on?

You just don't know anymore, and in your anguish you allow the tears to flow down your cheeks.

Smith's voice abruptly shatters the uneasy stillness, as he speaks for you. "Mr. Reagan you have five minutes to mount your motorcycle and leave these premises before I open fire upon you. But before you go, know this: I don't care about your duplicitous activities, or your convoluted chronicles of half-truths and tall tales. Unless you can provide _me_ with valuable intelligence, something I can use against my enemies, I will kill you where you stand and not think twice about it. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

"You have, Smith. You know, we actually do have something in common. We both want the same things, to be rid of the Matrix and establish a new world order. Maybe we can help each other, you know, a little _quid pro quo? _What's a little exchange of information between friends? Remember Smith, there's some truth to the old adage: the enemy of my enemy is my friend."

Smith chooses to ignore Cypher's last declaration. Instead, he firmly reminds him of the passage of time. "My inner chronometer says you have about three minutes and counting, Mr. Reagan. You'd better get a move on. My trigger finger is getting itchy."

You refuse to turn around, but you can certainly hear the retreating reverberation of Cypher's footfalls on the concrete, then the thunderous resonance of his motorcycle's engine roaring to life. Subsequently, the noise of squealing tires echo in the air as the smell of burnt rubber invades your nostrils. The sounds of Cypher's hasty retreat get fainter and fainter until all at once they are gone, evaporating into nothingness.

For what seems to be a very long time you find yourself rooted to the spot that you are standing on, saying nothing. It is Smith that breaks the silence. "We still have to fuel our vehicle if we wish to continue on our journey."

Slowly, you nod, acknowledging him. Yet you refuse to utter a single word. And once you find yourselves back on the road for the remainder of the voyage, you say nothing, nothing at all.

End Chapter Seven


End file.
